Umber
by AbominableDante
Summary: Werewolves, shonenai, OC, oh my!
1. Into the Dragon’s Lair

**Author's Notes: **My first Hellsing fic. My first shonen-ai/yaoi fic. Be nice.

The /word/ is Alucard's mental conversation.  
The _italics_, when obviously not a stressed word are Rothen's mental coversation.

**Disclaimers: **I do not own Hellsing, but God damn, if I could, I so would.

* * *

Chapter 1: Into the Dragon's Lair Dark Ages  
RomaniaYear  
1262 A.D. 

He was relaxing on his throne, his cloaks billowing in soft folds around his feet, his chin propped up in the palm of his hand as he stared boredly at his court. You'd think for the creatures of the night, they would be a bit more…lively. No fights had broken out in nearly a week and he was growing restless, anticipating that there was going to be one soon, maybe tonight. That would certainly alleviate his boredom.

He ignored the chatter about him, waving off those who wished to converse with him with a flick of his wrist and a fang-bearing snarl. He did not wish for idle chatter, not while nerves ran tight. He could sense it, something formidable in the air. Coming his way at last.

He felt the corners of his mouth tilt up in a gruesome smirk when the doors of the throne room flew open and the bodies of guards fell in, some headless, some still writhing in agony after their hearts had been cut out. As they turned to ash in final death, a figure stepped out of the plume of darkness and rising dust. The figure stepped into the throne room and the courtiers backed away, on their guard but unnerved all the same. So this wasn't a vampire, come to make a scene. It hadn't been invited inside and yet, here it was. But no human could possibly get past his defenses, he thought, idly toying with a lock of his midnight hair. He tilted his head and smiled wider, finally catching the scent of his uninvited guest.

It was a dark scent, musky and wild and tangy on his taste buds as he breathed it in. The smell of wet fur and dried blood were what he identified next and, struck by curiosity, he motioned to the being to come closer. It obeyed, the courtiers splitting before it like frightened sheep, some covering their noses against the pungent smell of dog that all but radiated off of the creature that passed them. It stepped into the light of an overhead torch, the firelight beaming down on a young, beautiful face, utterly flawless and noble but for a scar across his right eye. A high brow, sharp cheekbones and proud lips set on the pale, oval face…the boy couldn't possibly be human! His eyes caught him in his survey, bearing down at him with such an intensity he could not help the shiver of excitement run down his spine. Gold. His eyes were gold.

A werewolf…the eyes told him before he'd even noticed the soft ears settled on the boy's head and the long, bushy tail that swung lazily between his legs.

The Prince of the Night sat up in his throne and smiled darkly at the boy-wolf before him. They looked like two different ends of a spectrum finally meeting at one point in between. The Prince was dressed in dark red and black and silver robes, lavished in finery while the werewolf was in peasant garb, mail and a pair of rough boots, a sword hanging naked in his hand. They held one another's gaze for some time, neither giving in nor looking away.

Intrigued, the Prince finally asked, "What brings you to my court, Werewolf?"

"I have come to kill you," was the honest reply, the rough voice spilling strangely from his lips, heavily accented.

The Prince laughed, the eerie sound of it echoing off of the smooth stone walls. The courtiers seemed affronted and the werewolf did not react at all, probably having expected this.

"You do not fear me?" the vampire lord asked, having recovered from his mad laughter.

"You are no better than the human swine you slaughter," the werewolf said flatly, readying his blade. The guards stationed around the room almost advanced but the Prince held his hand up to stop them, suddenly serious.

A flash of movement, a confusing billow of capes and the vampire Prince appeared behind the werewolf, a hand wrapped around his throat while the other quickly disarmed him. He sniffed the exposed neck of the werebeing and let out a low purr.

"What would you do to kill me?" the Prince asked, nosing the boy's earlobe just to enjoy the shutter of disgust he felt within the slender body he had captured, the barely contained rage that all werebeings were famous for.

"Anything," the boy spat, trying to clutch tighter onto his sword even as he felt a thumb press into a joint and pop it out of place, rendering his hand useless. He bit back a howl of pain, clenching his teeth tightly together and not making a sound as he distantly heard the crack of a broken wrist and the clatter of his sword hitting the marble floor.

"Would you sell your soul?" the vampire asked, pleased that the werewolf was bearing his torture with some semblance of pride, even as he felt the pain roll off of the werewolf like a cold sweat. He savored it, drank it in and wanted more.

"I have none to sell." The wolf-boy was feeling faint suddenly as the hand around his throat was tightening. He could do nothing about it, though, even though one of his hands was free. The voice had captured him as securely as a snake was captured by the eyes of its charmer. He was as helpless as a cobra, entranced only as long as contact was kept. He heard another low purr emanate from the vampire that held him fast.

"Then I shall have your heart," the vampire whispered. The werewolf felt something prod into his mind, something sharp, searching, testing, but for what, he did not know. He felt it sink painfully deeper into his consciousness, jamming into what had to be his spine before pulling away and leaving something behind, like a thorn in his thumb.

He felt the hand on his throat slide across his chest and rest above his heart, feeling its flurry of pulses. The vampire let out a soft laugh and sunk his fingernails into the flesh below, bypassing the chain mail and leather armor as if it were paper, reaching in, deeper and deeper, into what felt like his innermost being before stopping, gently clutching at the beating organ there. The werewolf was crying silent tears of pain and biting his lower lip so hard it was bleeding but refused to so much as whimper, even as he felt a jerk, a twisting and a final wrench as the vampire pulled out his heart, holding it tightly in his hand.

The world was darkening for the werewolf, senses were overloaded with such terrible pain that he could no longer stand on his own and sagging against the monster that held him even as it feasted on his most precious donator of life. Surely he only had a few moments left to live, he pondered as what felt like minutes came and went without his own passing into the other world. What was happening? Why wasn't he dead?

And then he finally felt a cold wash of sleepiness envelop him and he gratefully sank into it as one would sink into a hot bath on a chilly night, seeking the comfort of unconsciousness and shutting his eyes against the horrors of the vampiric court and Prince before him. And yet, he felt a tugging at the thorn in the back of his mind, as if a string were attached and wanting attention.

Words echoed in the darkness of his delirious mind, in a surreal purr of a voice he could not recognize. He did not address the words. He wasn't even sure he'd heard them at all. He sank further into blackness until he heard and felt and thought nothing more.

/You are mine this night and all the nights forthwith. Forget not my kindness, pet, and pay your debt in full./

* * *

_Fin_ _Please review.  
_


	2. Wake Up

Chapter 2: Wake up

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

The room was dark and circular, barely six feet in diameter. He knew. He'd paced it many times, that tiny floor. These stone walls went high, though, almost too high to see but for a small window that let in the feeble light from the full moon. Tonight was his change, but he had not the energy to care. He hadn't had the energy to do anything for years. The number of years had passed him by long ago, after his guard had left and never returned.

He was starved but no longer hungry, eternally sleepless and yet wide awake at this dark hour of midnight. His body was wasted and weak and covered in the finest layer of dust, his clothes and bindings rotten but still there, keeping his too-thin arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He had passed the point of stench, ignoring his body as it let itself die slowly, even though his mind was as active as ever, swirling dizzily around the thorn in his thoughts ever as a tongue exploring the cavity of a tooth, worrying the pain only worse in an attempt to discover its reason for existence. He had passed boredom, coherent thought beyond his reach as if tossed up on a shelf and ignored.

His glassy eyes lacked their old luster and stared absently at the wall he faced, his back propped eternally against a wall. He had stopped wondering why the eternal youth spell his master had set on him had stopped working and he had begun to age again. It could only mean his master was dead, right? No, if his master were dead, his mind would have been destroyed along with the eternity spell. That meant his master was wasting away as he had…that had to be the only reason.

He vaguely heard footsteps down the corridor, the muttering of a woman and the swish of clothing. He heard the scurrying of spiders as they tried to escape the feet of the passers by, smelled the smoke of what had to be a cigar, although he hadn't known the scent for longer than his imprisonment. And then he felt it.

The tugging on the thorn that bound him to his master, the sensation so familiar and welcome it flooded him with relief. Here he had been worrying about the state of his master when he was indeed well. He was happy and angry at once, wondering how long his master had been playing this joke on him and why. He tugged back weakly and let the connection go, sinking back into his own thoughts, no longer possessing his former attention span.

The footsteps stopped in front of his cell's door and he heard a quiet conversation on the other side, but still he could not muster the will to move. He had the strength? He was a werewolf! His kind had always possessed such strength…but…he was tired. He did not even try.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Sir Integra?" a voice came, an elderly voice, masculine and defiantly possessing the roughness of a human throat. English, he identified next. Ah yes…he could understand most of it, but could not speak it himself. The lessons that his master had wanted him to take had stopped after his imprisonment.

"We can use him for our cause," the woman replied, her voice impeded only slightly as she chewed on a cigar. So she was the one that smoked? But he remembered a man smoking before her…long ago…

"You must keep him in order, Alucard or else he will be going back into his cell…permanently," the woman added.

Alucard? Who was Alucard?

There was some kind of affirming sound and a key was jammed into the rusted lock of his cell, twisted roughly and opened. The door creaked open slightly, but he could not see out as his head had locked into position years ago, his eyes fixed on the wall. A single pair of feet stepped in and shut the door again before making their way to where he sat to kneel in front of the bed he had curled up on and forgotten to move. A blurry vision entered his sightline, a pale face and hair that blended with the black background of his cell. He could not blink to clear his eyes, though, of the dusty film that covered them, nor move his cracked lips to ask who the man was. Feeling lost, his mind whirled excitedly. Who was this man, this man with such a familiar scent and hair that put the wings of ravens to shame?

He felt the tugging again and desperately clung to it.

It has been too long, my pet…you've wasted, the mental voice of his master chided quietly. He felt like shrinking away and hiding under the bed, but did not move.

_Master…_

/Yes. It is me. A pause. Can you move/

_No, Master…I-I'm sorry…_

/Do not fret about it./

He felt fingers that were both cold and hot string through his greasy, dusty gray hair, touch his face and wipe away the grime. He heard the gentle fall of water into a basin and felt a hand tilt his chin up as a rag was wrung out, dumping water into his dry eyes, clearing it of intruding particles. Moments passed, moments in which his face was cleaned, his clothes removed and his body cleansed and clothed afresh, moments which his link to his master did not waver. He wanted to ask what was happening to him, but wouldn't. His master would tell him in due course.

He saw in his vision a knife being raised and felt a sliver of terror slip into his mind, but the alien presence of his master squashed it down. He still couldn't move, paralyzed with weakness, even as he wished now he had his strength again. Did his master want him to die? Couldn't he just rip out the mental connection they had and sever his spine? What was happening?

/Hush/ came the voice again, harsh even when the word was gentle. Such clichés were common with his master's thoughts, but it did not calm him entirely.

He heard the slice of cold metal on skin, the barest whisper of sound and the dripping of blood onto the floor, a loud thump in comparison to the silence he had known before. A pressure was against his lips then, something warm and salty and bitter tracing its way across his parched tongue.

/Drink, but do not bite/ was the order and he did his best to obey. The first few drops that reached his throat and landed in his empty stomach gave him the strength to latch onto whatever was giving him this lifeblood and suck as much as he could out. He could feel his strength returning, his form reinventing cells that had disappeared decades ago.

He whined when the object of his attention was ripped away from him. His voice was barely more than a whisper, even if it felt strained to its loudest potential. The warm/chilled hands stroked across his face again and held his chin still. He stared at the face but did not comprehend it, still preoccupied with the taste of blood on his tongue.

_Master…_ he whined through the link. There was a chastising wash of emotion in return and he resisted the urge to cringe.

/If you take any more, you might drain me/ the voice said calmly over the connection/Rest now. You are safe. You will have more to drink when you awaken./

The fingers on his chin pushed his eyelids down and that was that. He could not argue and so instead let his mind flow with the tide of lost thoughts that had occupied his time in the cell. He could no longer sleep, but the loss of consciousness was a welcome change, a sign of the return of his master, a sign that he may stop guarding the thorned connection of their minds because it would, indeed, be there when he got back to it. He distantly felt his body immersed in moonlight as the moon moved into place. He felt his form lifting from its spot on the crumbled bed, secured in strong arms and carried off to some other, possibly better place.

He felt his mouth twitch as a smile formed on his cracked lips for the first time in twenty years.

_My master returns…

* * *

_

_Fin Chapter 2_

_Please Review_


	3. Awake?

Chapter 3: Awake?

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

Memories overlapped. Was he dreaming? Was he hallucinating? Surely this could not be the past, but he recognized the surroundings, the scent, the noise. He felt a wash of strangeness wash over him, refreshing him into awareness when his eyes rested on the form of a young woman sitting by his bed, wringing out a rag and reaching over to dab at his face with it.

He flinched.

The woman, barely more than a girl, started from her chair when he tried to dart out of the bed he had been laying in and make a run for the door. He didn't make it halfway across the room before he collapsed. He landed roughly on his front, his face smashing into the freezing stone of the floor and scraping a layer or two of skin from his nose.

A deep chuckle lilted through the room and he picked himself up slowly, careful of whatever joints he'd bruised, and turned to face a man in a long red coat and wide brimmed hat. The man looked up at him, his glasses glinting a mismatched orange and a feral grin flickering in the dim lighting.

"Master?" he asked, his voice thickly accented.

The man swept off his hat in a grand gesture and smirked at him, ignoring the girl's response in the background.

"Rothen," his master replied, still grinning. He couldn't help thinking how much of an idiot he looked like with that smile on his face all the time, but he didn't voice it. It had to have been a coping device…like his absurd clothes…

"You look like Hell. Satan have fun with you?"

"You should know. It is the hell you set me up with. By the way, the hat doesn't suit."

"Ah, I know, but I like it."

Rothen nodded and cocked his head to the girl.

"Who's she? New pet?"

"Project. Call her Police Girl."

"Certainly she has a name…"

"But she has not earned it."

"Not like you to bring a wretch into the family…getting careless in your old age?"

The vampire laughed again.

"Who is Alucard? Where am I? Why are we here?"

"All questions that will be answered in time. At the moment, though, Alucard is what the head of this family calls me. You recall Sir Hellsing from twenty years ago, don't you?"

"Aye," the werewolf replied, nodding as he picked at his tangled hair, eyes never leaving the vampire before him.

"At the moment, I'm serving off a boon to him. Actually to his daughter, as he happens to be dead. And so the Lady Integra Hellsing comes into the picture."

"That woman who smokes?"

"That's the one."

"She sounds like a tart."

"Now, now, none of that. Not until I've done my job here, then you may let loose your tongue. Also you are at the Hellsing Mansion outsider of London. England…Britannia, as you still call it, though it hasn't been such for years."

"Yes, but it's a much better name."

The vampire shrugged and motioned to the young woman who had been watching the exchange with slight confusion. Possibly because it had passed between the vampire master and werewolf in German. Rothen turned to her and frowned, studying her with unsteady eyes. She murmured a 'nice to meet you' and his polite reply was a indignant snort.

"Don't lie, childing, it stinks up the air," he snapped.

She shut her mouth and turned to look worriedly at Alucard.

"Police Girl, this is Rothen Ahren von Thorne, a very senior servant of mine. Make sure he is well fed and that his strength and speed heal, I want him to be useful in a week," Alucard ordered and rose to leave. The girl stood as well and followed him, chattering.

/Get thee well, pet. I have work for you./

_I look forward to it, Master.

* * *

_

_Fin Chapter 3_

_Please Review_


	4. Proper Introductions

Chapter 4: Proper Introductions

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1262 A.D. 

When he had come to, his senses were screaming with pain and fury and confusion. He felt more like an animal than a sentient being that even on the nights that called to his wolf blood to bay and hunt and kill. How long had he been asleep? Was it all just a nightmare?

He slowly turned his head to the side, blinking tiredly at the elaborate wall hangings and the fireplace that could've easily cooked two middling-height human children at the same time. The thought did not make his mouth water, a fact he was not pleased to know. This was not his bed. His bed was more of a nest dug out of the sodden hay in an abandoned barn, with fleas and ticks and beetles biting him out of their homes and sharp straw splinters sticking in his skin. This bed was soft, like the fluff of a lamb's wool and smelled of goose feather. And something else not animal at all…

Events came back to him in rapid succession and he bit back a terrified shutter. He was still in the clutches of the Prince vampire, lost in Romania, forever far from his home. His heart had been stolen, but the sense was too literal, too like a mocking pun. He somehow felt that it seemed fitting, of course a vampire could never have the heart of a lover, for they did not love, but to physically take the heart of another and somehow leave them intact, that was the greatest joke of all.

He didn't laugh, but he heard a clapping. His eyes shot toward the sound, to the oversized chair before the fireplace, turned so the back hid all of its sitter but a shadowed profile. He saw the face crinkle into a smile, fangs winking wickedly at him in the firelight as the man rose and glided slowly toward the bed.

/Well thought, little wolf. One must feed his hunger for humor as well as blood from time to time. It is the way of things/ a voice said not to him, but within him, occurring as if the words were his own thoughts, though he knew they were not. He blinked up at the other, surprised, suddenly recalling the thorn in his mind.

A portal between minds? Was that what kept him alive?

/Aye, and my fascination with you./

He opened his mouth to retort, but found he could not speak. Surprised, he went back to thinking, as that seemed to get the answers he asked for before.

The bed sank slightly at his side as the other sat down, leaning forward slightly so that his hair covered half of his face. A pale hand brushed across his cheek and he sighed, perversely thankful for the cool relief on his feverish skin even in the face of eminent danger. But one could never ignore the little things.

_Why not kill me? I tried to kill you,_ he asked.

"I do not know as much of the werewolf race as I would like. To study you would be most intriguing."

_Oh, is that all? Then why take my heart?_

At this he saw a smile and he felt a shiver run up his spine.

"You'd never give it willingly, but where your heart lies, so does your loyalty."

_You're sick,_ he thought-spat. The vampire laughed softly, almost thoughtfully.

He felt gentle fingers trace from his temple down to his jaw, cupping the soft flesh of his cheek in a chilly palm, sucking the heat away from his face as the cold flesh started to warm. He shuttered and tried to pull away, but his body still refused to obey. He opened his mouth to verbally protest, but only a weak hiss passed through his teeth as the hand trailed down his neck and pressed into the tissue between his neck and his shoulder. He snapped his eyes shut and tried feebly to turn his head away.

_Stop, just leave me alone,_ he growled, but his mental voice lacked conviction, lacked strength and the bravado he had used before. He felt his face burn with shame at the sound of it, at the sound of begging; his own voice begging! Such dishonor in his kind! He wanted to die.

"Yes," the vampire hissed as he trailed neatly filed and polished fingernails down his clothed chest, "Wallow in your shame. You are nothing more than a servant, a maggot in the presence of a god."

_You are not a god._

/I am _your _God./

At that, the fingernails that had been resting against his belly crawled under the shirt and sliced their way neatly through the rough fabric. It fell away in tatters, practically disintegrating in the air as it lay around his form like stripped hide. His mail was gone, removed sometime in his unconsciousness, and he felt terribly open to attack. Just what was going to happen to him, lying bare-chested, weak and unprotected in front of an enemy?

The fingernails trailed down his pale chest, across his stomach, tracing the valleys between the taut muscles there until they reached the rope that held up the waist of his pants.

_No, _he thought suddenly, a sob escaping from his closed throat, _Please, don't…Don't humiliate me like that. Haven't you done enough?_

"Beg all you like, if you really wanted me to stop, you would have found a way by now," the other reasoned as he slashed apart the worn pants. He ran a mock-gentle hand over the flesh bared; examining it like an antique dealer would examine an old sword, looking for imperfections.

"Such clothing is unworthy of your skin. You are a wonder, werewolf."

The vampire leaned over him, stopping when their faces were inches away and waiting, but for what, he could not guess. They shared breath, leaving him wondering why vampires breathed at all if they were dead. Then the dark prince lowered himself and pressed his lips against the werewolf's protesting mouth.

Try as he might, though, he could not break free. He could not even find the will to move, even as he felt disgust climb up his throat in a groan, his face a deep red. The vampire pulled away, smirking, obviously taking the noise as a good sign, whatever 'good' meant.

Or was it he, the trapped werewolf, who was confused? His mind was screaming against all of this, fighting for an escape, but his body, oh his body was tingling with sensation, with a need stronger than his bloodlust. When the vampire hand grasped him between his legs and squeezed, he could not suppress his gasp of both surprise and pleasure.

_If you wanted sex, then some courtier could've filled that post easily for you,_ he whispered, still trying to put up some kind of fight, but there were lips against his throat and he could not suppress a groan.

/It's not the sex, though it is an advantage/ the vampire laughed.

_It's the control?_

/That…and a consistent and faithful lover. Do werewolves really mate for life/ His tone was mocking.

The werewolf would not answer, his eyes closed tightly even as he felt sharp incisors etching against the skin near his throat.

_Don't…_

The fangs sank down into his skin, loosing the blood that pumped from his vein to trail thickly down his neck and drip onto the bed, staining the sheets and blankets there. A scream ripped through the werewolf, so powerful his felt his back arching off the bed and tears streaming down his face. The permanence of the bite filled the space where his heart had been with despair.

"Hush, pet," the vampire said, his voice suddenly tender, a whisper against his ear. The elegant hands wiped away his tears and lips pressed against his cheek, his forehead, his eyelids.

/Are you horrified to become the mate of the world's most powerful vampire? Is it a shame to bow and worship the Prince of the Night/

_To bow…to bow is a shame…_ he somehow managed, all strength sapped from his mental voice, leaving behind a weak replacement.

"And to bow to a mate?"

He couldn't answer. He opened his eyes and vaguely took in the face that hovered above his.

The werewolf's eyes were hollow, blinded by such great sadness that it tugged on his emotions, filled his heart with the vampire mockery of pity. He could not laugh at this. It was a submission, a lesser dog to a greater master, to laugh at it would be foolish. He pulled away, sitting up and watching the werewolf as he remained, his chest shuttering with silent tears, his mind full of simmering shame.

/You are beautiful/ he said softly, laying out next to the werewolf's form, but not touching it, reaching out to pull the coverlet over the shivering body.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 4_

_Please Review_


	5. Training Night

Chapter 5: Training Night

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

"What did I tell you about focusing, Police Girl!" Alucard shouted over the racket of gunfire, "For God's sake, can't you even get this right?"

Rothen watched without interest as Alucard showed Seras Victoria the proper way to aim and shoot for at least the fourteenth time tonight for a few moments before going back to tearing up blades of grass and stargazing. Sir Integra wasn't out with them tonight, he had noticed, but then humans weren't built for the night. He heard a rather loud bang and an even louder apology.

_She's pretty damned pathetic, Master_ he remarked. A mental snort reached him and he smiled softly.

/Perhaps you could do better/ Alucard suggested, hauling him to his feet by the nape of his coat and passing him a standard human pistol.

"I shall try, Master, though this is not my choice weapon," Rothen said with a bow and stalked to the shooting booth. He checked the weapon briefly, knowing enough about guns from past experience to want to make sure they would work without incident, because if something got blown off, it wouldn't grow back. The gun checked out, so he took aim and shot.

He could hear Seras curse softly behind him and ignored her as he emptied the rest of the bullets out on the rest of the dummy targets. Once finished, he set the gun down again and blinked up at Alucard.

"Is it to your satisfaction, Master?" he asked, ears perked hopefully.

Alucard pointedly glared at his fledgling vampire before nodding to Rothen, "Tis."

Rothen smiled and nodded in thanks for the compliment and went back to where he had been sitting before, his tail wagging behind him. He could hear the two vampires arguing again, but he wasn't paying attention.

A shooting star had just streaked by. He whispered his wish to the wind and shut his eyes for a short nap.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 5_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **I'm sorry this is brief. I don't know what the point in this glimpse was…maybe some fan service to the Seras Victoria fans…

Yeah, let's run with that.


	6. Change

Chapter 6: Change

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1262 A.D. 

Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.

How else could he describe his new master?

He looked incredibly young when he wasn't awake, with his eyes closed against the lamplight that washed over his pale face like orange watercolor. The lips were silent and still, the teeth beneath hidden by the slim pink mouth that was only slightly wide.

His nose was too long, but there were no other flaws. No scars, no stubble, not even a mole to mar the white paperish flesh lying on the pillow next to him. A slender hand was tucked under one cheek to prop the face comfortably, almost human but for the lack of air gusting from his nostrils.

His ears perked slightly, listening for a heartbeat that wasn't there.

He sighed, unable to relax, and yet entirely exhausted. Had the vampire known his unease and therefore let him alone? And then, why had he laid out next to him and slept, leaving himself utterly defenseless? Was he mocking him, or waiting for another day, when his werewolf pet would finally relax in his presence and rape his mind and body?

Rothen felt his hackles rise unbidden, a low growl rumbling in his scoured throat as painfully as swallowing glass.

One perfect eye opened, sunset colors flashing hazily from under thin skin and black, black eyelashes. It assessed him, slightly annoyed.

/Be silent./

_You mock me._ Not a question, a statement.

A sigh and the cradling hand slipped out from under the pale cheek, rising slowly to ghost over his face. The werewolf flinched, hissing and spitting a violent few inches, and smacked the hand away.

/I have never mocked you./

_You mock me now. Leave yourself unprotected in my presence. I could kill you in seconds, rend your flesh._

The dark head turned slightly into the pillow, shoulders shaking in what he recognized as a laugh.

/Try and we shall see./

Rothen did not enjoy the tone in that voice, the menace and the humor. It made him feel weak, like a child in the face of a monstrosity.

But he was nothing more that than now, wasn't he?

He shrank back from the vampire's form a little more, now eight inches from the warm spot he had occupied moments before. The sheets below his naked form were cool, smooth, ghastly against his skin. He was unused to silk and satin, unused to clean wool and linen. The sheer _difference_ made him shutter and tuck his tail against his legs and flatten his ears and lower his eyes.

Fingers like death stroked his face again. He flinched, but did not look up or attack or so much as growl, even as the other's body moved in and enveloped him with frozen arms and held him close.

/Be silent/ came the voice again, softer this time, almost as gentle as the fingers that carded his hair. He was shivering but not fighting. He should have been fighting, but he had no will.

What had happened to him?

Why was he terrified of killing this vampire?

/You will die too/ the voice answered him, matter-of-fact.

_I am not afraid to die. _ he snapped back, his teeth on edge. The chilly hands stroked along the back of his neck, brushing the raised hair there. The vampire leaned his face forward, pressing his long nose into the thick locks of red-brown hair, cool breath sighing against his scalp and making the werewolf shutter.

His face was tilted up, forced to expose his neck to the monsters shoulder by how close they were. His mouth was centimeters away from the pulsing vein at the other's neck, if only he could just…

He dared not bite. To return the bite would be marking the other and accepting him as a mate. He would not.

He turned his face away from the other's skin, long, lank hair falling across his eyes in a mixture of auburn and black, perfect in its complexity and its ease at resting among the other, as if it was meant to be.

_I will not fall to destiny. The stars rule nothing._

/Do you not worship the stars, werewolf/ the vampire asked, curious possibly about the truth in the lore that spread of the were-kind. Rothen attempted and failed to shake his head. His neck was locked so his chin pointed up, quirked and straining in a strange direction.

"I worship nothing, not even the moon's phase," he snarled, his fingers scrabbling up along the other's chest, sinking deep into the flesh there.

The vampire hissed but did not pull away. Rothen could feel the dark prince's skin healing already. His claws meant nothing to the other's flesh as a commoner's pitchfork paid little threat to him.

But a strange pain wracked his form, down his spine, through the veins to his very fingertips and toes and tail. It was worse than the change, worse than the bone-wrenching shape shifting and the tear of sinew and skin. He whimpered softly, surprised that he hadn't screamed. The air around him was oppressive. Maybe that was why he couldn't scream and howl in protest to the pain.

The arms held him tight like iron bonds, as if to shield his shivering form from the huffing pants that wracked it. Tears were streaming from his eyes, making the hair against his face stick and tangle with the humidity. He felt disgusting, he felt used, he felt mindless pain.

The vampire cooed at him, fingers back in his hair as if to comfort and he knew no better, leaning his head back into that comfort, savoring and soaking it in, letting it fill him until the pain receded.

_Luna preserve me, what was that?_ he thought timidly. The vampire laughed.

"We are bound, pet, to one another. We feel one another's pain if we abuse the other's bodies," he paused, bending his head down to kiss the furred shell of the werewolf's ear, "But the mind is my domain."

Rothen hissed then, throwing his fury into his strength, just enough to break through the other's arms. He pushed back as far as he could.

He fell off the bed and landed roughly on the stone floor, his arm crushed under his body strangely. He howled, getting to his feet and backing away into a nearby corner, ears flat and fangs barred.

The vampire was sitting up in the bed now, looking concerned, but not for the single coverlet that kept him decent. The henna-flavored eyes weighing him, sizing him and determining his tendencies.

"You are not strong enough for the change," the vampire observed, but the hairs on his arms were already standing up and growing longer, thicker; growing fur.

His body shifted with a sick grinding of bone, the cracking of a skull breaking and reshaping, beating the brain against its casing hard enough to dizzy him. He snarled and snapped and screamed.

This was the pain he knew; nothing strange, nothing spinal and new. He threw back his head and howled again, enjoying the crawl of skin and brush of new fur. He shrank, his form only slightly larger than that of a normal wolf, his eyes a burning umber that rivaled the vampire's, his pearly teeth permanently sharp were now longer, more dangerous.

_I belong to no one._ he hissed, growling. He arched his back, much resembling a cat, as the vampire rose from the bed. His movements were slow, calm as he pulled the blanket with him as he moved towards his corner. One hand held the blanket fast around his waist as the other reached out, beckoning or placating, though, he could not decide.

"No one but me," the vampire returned softly, his voice a quiet rumble in the noise Rothen heard around him. The calming thunder among the crashing lightning and torrents of rain, the only thing he loved as a child. Did the other know this? Perhaps.

_No one._

"You are weak, pet-"

_Not your pet!_ he snarled, barking.

The vampire smiled, the slightest baring of fang that revealed no menace. The beckoning hand twisted its fingers and he moved closer with the softest rustle of cloth along the stone.

"Rothen."

The werewolf growled as the vampire took another step toward him. His fingers were inches from his black-rimmed mouth, catching the foam that was carried on his angry breath.

"Rothen."

The voice was softer now, like the pleading of a mother, quiet, calming. Like his mother once used to speak him to sleep, to whisper her stories into his childish ear as he curled against her breast.

"Rothen."

The vampire was next to him now, kneeling. He felt the other's fingers stroke the edge of his fur, smooth the lines along his muzzle as he quieted, relaxing against his common sense. Unbidden, he sank to the floor, panting, in pain. Had he been in pain the whole time?

"Rothen," the vampire whispered, his face pressed into mottled red fur, the long nose resting against his ear. Both arms were around his form, one on his neck and the other over his back, stroking his spine through the fur as if it wasn't there.

He felt like he was going to melt under the ministrations, surrounded by heat.

"You've a fever, Rothen. You're weak for the moment. That's why I told you not to change," the other said to him. Rothen sensed almost paternal concern from the other. It was easier to smell emotions in this form, even from the dead.

He whimpered, tired, pained and in despair, and let his head lower into his paws. The hands kept petting him. The effect was relieving.

/Sleep, my pet. You've much strength to regain/ the mind whispered to him. He could not protest, he hadn't the will left to protest. The other pulled away only briefly, and then shifted strong arms under his limp form, lifting him and propping him against the broad chest. He soaked in the cold there, trading his living warmth for the chill as if he didn't have a coat of winter fur.

The vampire laid him out on the bed, leaning down to pet his head and brush figment lips against his wolfish brow.

/Sleep./

* * *

_Fin Chapter 6_

_Please Review_


	7. The Original Wacko Jacko

**Author's Notes: **On the bottom.

* * *

Chapter 7: The Original Wacko JackoYear of Three Emperors  
London, England  
Year 1888 A.D. 

His mouth was like a slash across his face, smeared red with blood lips that stood out against his paper-pale face. A whore's lipstick couldn't compete with the redness of his mouth, his lips, the red on his stained teeth when he smiled. The whore's mouth would be kiss-smeared, much like that face, the red streaming down her chin with the smeared paint, drying like powder on her jaw. The red on his lips streamed wetly, liquid and horrific. There were no kisses in that smile, in the painted canines like the dog's.

The insanity, the insanity was beautiful on his face. He wore it like a slinky dress on the shapely whore, sliding her way through the back alleys of the city, lit only by the dim yellow of the lights swinging over the back doors of roach-filled kitchens in which the rapist hides and cooks the short-order fish and chips for his next victim. His black eyes glittered like streetlamps reflecting in car windows, in the passing of the taxi when its driver ignores the frantically waving woman in her business suit, chased down by the dark beasts that haunt her dreams.

"You haunt my dreams," he whispered against her ear, his cheek pressed to hers in anything but a romantic way. The bite of teeth on her skin was dangerous, fangs just brushing the first layer, leaving faint trails of saliva, like tear tracks on her face. He had moved like lightning from one corner of the room to hers, moved in a blink, a flash and rustle of the fabric of his robes, his silent robes.

He watched her, fingers laced into her hair, clutching and pulling gently, leaning her head back. She submitted briefly, then pulled back, backing away as his fingers slipped out of her hair, releasing her. Her brown eyes watched him, met his and matched them. She was breathing hard, her breasts heaving prettily as she watched, realizing at last how much danger she was in. She screamed.

"I do believe you get too much pleasure from your hunts, Master," he said, his ears flicking forward and back nervously, a habit of his since the great arsenic and silver scare three years ago. It finally matched his tic for a constantly wagging tail, unlike the happy dog; it suggested unease, a misbalance in his system. He didn't understand the system. Did he even have one?

"It's the only pleasure in life I get, why not enjoy it?" he reasoned, leaving his hat, gloves and cloak with the butler as he strode gracefully into the main hall, followed by his werewolf. The other was following him with a propose, he could tell with how he walked just behind him and not the three respective steps he usually held and by the way he carried his notebook, a page opened and marked as important.

He stopped quite suddenly, the other just stepping to the side to avoid a collision, used to such annoyed antics by now.

"What is it?" he demanded tiredly. He was quite tired. It was getting close to dawn, he could see the gray crawling up the windows even now, and he wanted to sleep, stomach full and untroubled by thoughts that might keep him up. Thoughts he typically left to the werewolf to fret over.

The werewolf held a slip of paper out to him, the parchment awash in dim lamplight. He squinted at the unfamiliar writing, the troubled script, not the werewolf's. He couldn't write.

"It's from the Eyes, Master. They've said that the police are going to find us if we don't make off away now," the werewolf explained in a hurried whisper, eyes flickering down the hallway for any human servants who might've heard. He didn't trust the human servants like the vampire did, possibly from betrayal or the misplacement of his paranoia.

The Eyes were partially human spies, moles in the police, the detective agencies and other government officials that might've posed a threat to their way of life. Sometimes they were werecats or wererats, though rarely wolves, which were sparse even in unpopulated and forested areas where humans could not hunt them. Sometimes the Eyes would be human servants, brainwashed and accurate in their disguises and information-gathering.

"The newspapers have been going on about your entertainment, Master, with quite explicit pictures to top it," the werewolf continued.

"You can't read."

"The servants have taken to calling you 'Jack the Ripper'. Some smarmy human developed the name."

The vampire smiled at the name, eyes still deciphering the hurried (he decided) writing. The werewolf waited a brief moment, tail switching back and forth impatiently for a comment, even a grunt of dismissal, if it came to that.

"Cute. It has a pleasant ring."

"You're not being sarcastic." Deadpan, observant. He disliked it when the werewolf emotionally backed away far enough to study him objectively. He'd been doing it for years, but he didn't enjoy feeling like a specimen. He did the same thing to the werewolf, study him, and it wasn't rare that he found the tables turned.

"Don't tell me you actually like that name, Master," the werewolf continued, voicing his disgust. The vampire only smiled.

"So they're closing in on our little den, are they?" he said darkly, letting a lazy smile spread across his lips, still pinked and thick against the fed-flushed face. He reached out and slid soft fingers down the werewolf's cheek, eyes distant as they stared into the dying flame in the wall lamp. "You're suggesting we turn tail and run."

"They aren't prepared for fighting vampires, but times have changed. If a large number of human police go missing, someone will notice, take account. Master, certainly you can understand the tactic."

The vampire pulled away, hissing softly. The were-servant flinched, stepping back against the wall and hunching there, nursing a hand printed cheek. The vampire was in his face a moment later, eyes angry, a hand clenching the werewolf's jaw tightly so he couldn't look away.

"It isn't a tactic, it's cowardly," he hissed. He released the werewolf, letting the other breathe but not backing away, watching the lowered head with narrowed eyes. "You said they aren't prepared for fighting me. Let them come."

"It's foolish, Master. You know it. Why can't we just go somewhere else, somewhere less hostile? We might be able to stay more than a few months next time…"

The vampire hissed again, turning around and stalking to the staircase as he sensed dawn's arrival. He paused on the third step, his hand gripping the banister as he looked down at the werewolf, who was now sliding to the floor, tucking his knees against his chest. He considered the creature's shaking shoulders, the taste of fear that lingered around the other's form with the musk and scent of forests, a constant since his arrival.

He knew the other missed the forests, racing free through them as he had in his youth. Even in Romania the werewolf clutched to the mountains on which the evergreen trees grew like clover in the peasant fields below, left to fallow for a year or two before the next tilling. The cities they had inhabited since Romania had constantly tugged at the werewolf's heart, a heart that always called him to the forests, even when the moon was empty. Paris, Berlin, Morocco, London and more. Every time they'd settled for a few months (rarely more than ten, if they were sporadic and careful about their hunting), the werewolf had complained in his quiet way, silently protesting the ever-present smell of humans and horses and iron and all the noise, noise, noise that drove the werewolf's sensitive ears mad late into the night that had once been reserved to silent anticipation and fear of the monsters.

No one feared the monsters in the cities. In cities, the monsters were only farie tales. It was why Vladimir liked them and why his werewolf loathed them. The vampire could stand the presence of humans, could mingle and blend with them and pick them off efficiently. With his ears and tail, the werewolf couldn't and with his appetite for flesh as well as blood, could never silently hunt and kill his prey. Without a pack, he was not proficient, and Vladimir never offered to help. The werewolf wouldn't have accepted it anyway.

"I will consider it if I don't fall asleep first. Make plans for leaving, just in case I do decide that we go. List all we will take with us, but only what is important."

The werewolf bowed his head in acknowledgement, though he did not immediately rise to obey the order. He had all day to do it; he'd get around to it after managing the house as he usually did.

"Oh, and Rothen," the vampire added, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a brown paper package. The werewolf looked up, ears perked expectantly. "Eat. You're starting to look starved…again."

He tossed the package down and continued up the stairs without waiting for the werewolf to catch it. He heard a murmured 'thank you' and stalked down the hall to the master bedroom of the small house, latching the door behind him and snapping the thick velvet drapes closed against the breaking sunshine with a snarl.

The liver had plenty of blood in it; the werewolf should start looking better soon. Maybe they should move to the country for a short time after all.

He woke to the slight depression of the mattress next to him and groaned. It was far too early to wake up and he knew it. He reached out blindly, slashing lazily at the air with extended fingers until his hand was caught up and held. He felt soft lips press against the back of his hand before the weight on the bed shifted again and a whoosh of air brushed against his nude form as another body slid under the covers and curled close against his side. He smiled slightly, just the barest twitch of lips, as hot breath ghosted over his ear, followed by an almost affectionate lick.

"You enjoyed your meal, I presume," Vladimir whispered, sighing as curious fingernails slid across his chest.

"I'd prefer to hunt for myself. The blood here is tainted. It doesn't taste right," came the quiet reply. The hand slowed down and rested against his side as the body pressed warm against him and a head rested on his shoulder. The hair on his chest and arm tickled pleasantly and he reached up to pet the head there, huffing a laugh.

"Stop complaining. You're a messy eater if I'd let you out on your own."

"I know," was the pouted reply.

He stroked the hair in silence, the werewolf humming softly in appreciation as he settled down for sleep. He could feel the slowing breaths against his side, hear the tired heartbeat in the vein at the throat, nestled there beside him in what he would've called 'trusting' if that hand wasn't sprawled oh-so-innocently against his stomach, ready to rip and tear and rend the flesh there, make some real damage before their connection blinded him with pain. The werewolf still didn't completely trust him.

Good.

"Maybe we'll go back to Romania this time," Vladimir said softly against the other's forehead, his lips just brushing the skin below them.

"Hmm?"

Rothen wasn't awake, almost on the edge of sleep now, he knew. There was no point in waking the werewolf up. His pet was tired, it was better to let him rest.

"Go to sleep, pet. I'll tell you later."

_Ja, Meister

* * *

_

_Fin Chapter 7_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **As a reference to the ID title 'Year of Three Emperors'. I was looking for a way to describe the time period as I had in earlier chapters (Ex. Present Day, Middle Ages), so I ended up referencing Wikipedia because I wasn't sure when precisely the Victorian era ran and decided that this title would work much better. Besides the allusion to the Germanic heritage of our lovely werewolf, it holds little historical importance to this story. For further information, go look it up yourself.

**To my readers: **Yes, there is a certain emotional distance I took when I tackled this story. It was both as an experiment and a fluke. I was actually paying more attention to details than relationships, but trust me; it'll get a little more personal later on, when I get a hang of the plot.

I am accepting suggestions on how I might improve and get you all a little more involved (and interested) in the story. Please, tell me what you would like to read about…something with a little more depth than smut. Please send via reviews, because I have a tendency to delete email I do not recognize. Good day, then.

-Poco-poco


	8. Smoking Princess

**Author's Notes: **I really don't like editing, but I've probably said that before.

Right, so this chapter is thrown from a different perspective than either Rothen's or Alucard's. A friend of mine suggested I add some more women into the fray, so I'm currently working in some options for later. If we keep our fingers crossed, I might actually get to that point. Oh the joy.

Explaining the German in this and previous chapters: Before, chapters 1-7 were from either Rothen's or Alucard's perspectives. They both understand German, so I saw no point on spending a half hour on Babel Fish trying to get the bloody thing to translate everything for me. This chapter is different because The person whose perspective I used doesn't understand German. Translations are below the chapter, so just scroll down so see what our disgruntled werewolf has to say.

Also, I doubt I'll write anything in Romanian, because I can't find/ am too lazy to look for a good translation site for English-Romanian. Other languages? At the moment I'm thinking of only using English and German, but it could happen, you never know.

Enjoy, faithful readers.

* * *

Chapter 8: Smoking Princess

* * *

Present Day

London, England

19XX

Integra ventured towards the window, cigar between her thin, glossless lips, and stood silently beside the silent werewolf. He was watching the new recruits outside, men who had just learning what terrifying creatures that would be fighting and looked at one another in obvious disbelief. It was just as well, they'd figure it out soon enough.

She glanced down at the werewolf, who hadn't so much as twitched when she's turned the corner onto this hallway. He was almost entirely recovered from his entrapment in the tower, his lithe form betraying nothing of his age or strength. She knew from study that werewolves were almost as strong as most vampires, but aged only a little slower than humans, averaging the age of natural death at around 154 years.

She'd been told that the werewolf had been Alucard's companion since before the vampire's capture some 150 to 200 years ago. Even if Alucard had kept the werewolf since puppyhood (or whatever they called their childhood), there was no reason the werewolf couldn't look a day over seventeen. And still he did. The strange, rounded face was sprinkled with freckles, not liver spots, and the only wrinkles she had seen on his forehead were when he pulled a face. His knife-trimmed hair was not streaked with gray and white, but was a dusky brown and topped with slightly darker hair or fur on the large dog-like ears that switched back and forth with his expressions. At the moment, those ears were perked forward, his whole attention riveted to the scene outside, studying the mercenary's leaders and their vampiric trainer as they argued.

"I hadn't believed my father's notes about a werewolf in the towers," she began, speaking quietly around the cigar in her mouth. The ears twitched to face her briefly, but nothing else about the boy-wolf changed. "Of course, it makes sense now, having you around is probably superb protection for a vampire."

"Er benötigt nicht meinen Schutz. Ich bin ein Spielzeug zu ihm gerecht," the werewolf replied in a garbled language she could only identify as German. She didn't understand German and she didn't know if the werewolf knew any English. But it had seemed, on more than one occasion, that he understood enough. Alucard had told her that he refused to speak English for some moral reason, but the vampire had failed to articulate any further. She would have to learn German…or get a translator.

She reached up to pull her cigar from her lips, blowing the gray-blue smoke in a sigh.

"Werewolves are strong creatures, but not immortal. How did you survive in the tower for twenty years without sustenance, I wonder?"

If anything, he served as a good object to bounce questions off of. Maybe she should keep him around when she was working out ways to ask the Knights for her 'ridiculous requests' or when she tried to find new excuses for why she was buying helicopters, grenades, bullets, crosses, silver, guns and many other questionable items in bulk.

"Dreißig Jahre," he corrected, his eyes shifting briefly from the window to her. The glint of gold was warning. She looked out the window, frowning slightly as her new mercenary leader and Seras Victora snarled at one another.

"Sie sprechen nicht Deutsches, Sie?" Rothen asked, his voice a little less distracted. She picked up on a hint of annoyance, but paid it no attention. "Ihr großer Großvater... sprach es besser, als Rumäne, der für sicheres ist."

"They're mercenaries, ruthless, heartless buggers. But they'll fight," Integra all but crooned at the plate glass window before her. Rothen looked at her, his brow creased in what she presumed to be worry.

"Sie sind crizier, als er, obwohl war, möglicherweise dann Ihr Vater... Sie vermutlich die Experimente, wenn Sie ungefähr dann gewußt hatten, wurde nicht Sie gefördert haben würde?" the werewolf hissed. Integra looked sideways at him, unnerved by the tone. Had he meant to spit the words like that, or was it just the language? She resisted the human urge to take a step away from the werewolf.

His eyes seemed distant as he stared out onto the darkened mansion grounds. They flickered with what she guessed to be memories, his face a rigor of terror and fury. He was trembling, his fingers clenched in the folds of his loose gray shirt, his fingernails nearly tearing through the fabric. His hands were more clawed than human, made for rending flesh and to scratch bone, his ears folded back against his head as he turned slowly in his chair to face her.

Integra submitted to her human urges to step away before she realized it, sending out a silent prayer that her mistake of approaching the werewolf unguarded wouldn't be fatal.

* * *

The memories of that time were still fresh, still aching in his bones. During that time in the tower, he could feel his master's pain and anger and confusion, strapped to a table like a lab rat while scientists poked and prodded and tore and cut and examined his vampirism. 'To better understand it', he heard them murmur in the halls when they passed him his meals, 'And perhaps improve it.'

The vampire had suffered so much pain in his dead-life already, then through his imprisonment only to traverse through the perversions of humans who intended to 'improve his immortality'. There is no improvement to be made on evolved protection, none that humans could devise. They created limitations, rules for his anarchical gifts and bloodlust.

Power with laws was not power at all.

The scientists had examined him too, with just as much embarrassing depth as they had paid to the vampire. They couldn't understand his age, his power that was unlike others of his kind. They interrogated him about it, but he ventured no information. When they realized they couldn't persuade him to speak, they had stuffed him in his tower prison to keep him from his master, from protecting the vampire and tearing through the Hellsing household. Rothen remembered those times between interrogations only partly, through a haze of drugs to keep him calm through his fits. He screamed and cursed and thrashed on the floor against his bindings and reinforced straightjacket for escape and revenge, for his mate.

All for naught. The scientists finally gave him up as a lost cause and left him in the tower to rot as they focused the rest of their attention on the vampire.

When Rothen had felt the link to his master's mind go dormant, after months of restless waiting, he sat down on his bed and didn't move again, letting his body age and die even though his mind could not. He had despaired.

* * *

"Sie können nicht die Schmerz verwirklichen, die wir gerade erlitten, also konnten Sie Menschen uns als Ihre kleinen Prototypen verwenden," the werewolf was muttering. He got to his feet, a sneer twisting his too-pretty features. He made an animalistic snarl at her, slightly stained teeth flashing briefly as he moved closer. Integra stepped back again, furious that she was giving ground, but reasoning against the coiled self-loathing she felt. If she didn't give that ground, it looked very likely the werewolf was going to attack her.

"Das vollständige Los von Ihnen Hellsings sollte sterben," he continued, his mouth suddenly quirking into a smirk that made her uncomfortably aware of the hair on the back of her neck; it was standing up. "Ich denke, daß ich gerade für Ihre Kehle abrechne. Mein Meister würde lieben, Ihr Lebenblut von dem als sein erster Geschmack der Freiheit zu saugen, ich denken."

His arm was raised, clawed fingers ready to make a slashing cut before she thought to draw her hip pistol. By the time she spat out her cigar and pulled the gun out, Alucard had appeared, holding the werewolf back with his customary smile. He had been listening the whole time…she resisted the urge to shoot him and his pet both.

"Naughty pet," Alucard soothed into the werewolf's ear. The boy-wolf hissed and struggled against his master's arms. "Pardon, Master, he seems to have repelled all my training."

"Scheiße... Scheiße..." Rothen cursed, still struggling against the vampire's arms, "Warum stoppen Sie mich? Wir coul dbe frei, Meister, frei! Nach alles haben sie zu uns... getan."

"Silence." Alucard's voice was dangerous. The werewolf fell silent and slumped in the vampire's arms, eyes blank.

* * *

Interrupted. He was going to gnaw on his master's ear quite thoroughly when he could speak again. When he was done, the vampire wouldn't be able to regenerate the damage; he'd make sure of it.

The thorn in his mind surged with power as his master's will seeped into his body, forcing him to relax and stop fighting. He growled softly even as he felt the vampire manually shut his mind down and forcibly putting him to sleep. Even now he could hear his master's and the tart's voices beyond the daze he had been forced into.

"Remember my warning, Alucard, or he goes back to his cell permanently. Make sure he behaves," the Hellsing wretch's voice bubbled through his ears, easily translated. He twitched in annoyance.

"Some independence is prized in dogs…"

Rothen was torn about whether he should be furious with his master's terminology or pleased that he was bothering to defend him. He heard the woman sigh and felt those cold, glassed eyes focus on him.

"Make sure he behaves around me and the staff then; the rest I don't care about."

His master made a pleased sound even as he smothered the werewolf's mind again.

"He's hungry. He'll behave on a full stomach and some solitude."

"I'll have Walter send for a cow."

Cows. Rothen wanted to pulled a face. He disliked the taste of beef.

"That will suffice."

"Dismissed."

The black curtain of unconsciousness swamped him then and forced his dreams away.

* * *

**German-English half-assed translations:**

"He doesn't need my protection. I'm just a toy to him."

"Thirty years."

"You don't speak German, do you? Your great grandfather did…spoke it better than he did Romanian, that's for sure."

"You are crazier than he was, though, perhaps more then your father...you would probably have furthered the experiments if you had known about then, wouldn't you?"

"You cannot realize the pain we suffered just so you humans could use us as your little prototypes. The whole lot of you Hellsings should die. I think I will just settle for your throat."

My master would love to suck your life blood from that as his first taste of freedom, I think."

"Shit…shit…"

"Why are you stopping me? We could be free, Master, free! After everything they've done to us..."

* * *

_Fin Chapter 8_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**More Author's Notes: **I have the next few chapters in the planning stages, so the next one should be up in a matter of weeks if all goes well and I don't get hit by a car or something. We'll see how it goes.

**To My Readers: **Okay, I know I asked this before, but I'm afraid I have to ask again. Please edit/spell check reviews before sending them in. Nothing makes a writer grate her teeth than people who don't bother to spell simple words correctly. Also, please send in more suggestions and I'll see if I can work my magic and make them happen.

On another note, someone asked me about the relationship between Seras and Rothen. Why is Rothen jealous about Seras? Could it be a romantic tension I added to make my world all that more complicated, or have I just lost my mind?

Truthfully, Rothen and Seras will never have a romantic relationship. Tisn't that kind of story. The rest I cannot disclose at this time. Tee hee.

-Poco-poco


	9. Consider the Benefits of Submission

**Author's Notes: **I'm getting these new chapters up surprisingly fast for lazy little me. Maybe it's because I have some slight plot now, maybe I'm just inspired by some figment muse, or maybe I'm just coming down with something and this is my 'creative burst' before I have something worse than a sugar crash (which is what I'm on right now, actually). Anyway, let's just hope it lasts long enough for me to post in a few of my other fics before I die off and disappear from the writing scene again.

I hate writer's blocks…even when I don't have them.

* * *

Chapter 9: Consider the Benefits of Submission

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1262 A.D. 

He slithered in and out of sleeping dreams, some bad, some good. He remembered his homeland, the way the sunshine fell on his uplifted face, green-filtered through the younger forests. He rolled to his stomach, pressing his face into the pillows and breathing deep in an attempt to gather the scent of his packmates. The smell of death filled his nose and he snapped out of his dream, throwing himself out of the bed the moment he remembered where exactly he was.

Through his dazed state and his long bangs, he couldn't see a soul in the room. The vampire was gone and he couldn't hear any servants coming to help him to his feet. He pushed back his hair and looked around the dim room again, the embers of the fire throwing just enough light to make out the door. He got to his feet and went to test it.

It was unlocked. He pulled it open and peered out into the deserted halls for a moment before ducking back into his room and shutting the door again. The chill of the unheated hallway blew across his skin and made him shiver uncomfortably. As far south as Romania was, the mountains were just as cool as his German forests.

He searched the room for a trunk or a wardrobe. A pair of dark breeches and a loose tunic were placed on a footstool by the bed, a note resting on top of them. Rothen bypassed the paper and quickly pulled on the clothes as he moved back to the door and stepped out into the cold hall. The stone was freezing against his bare feet, which were used to the warm soil filled with rot and living things, but it was silent just the same. He had no boots that might click against stones, no weapons or coins to jingle and alert anyone nearby of his movement.

Like the humans said, sometimes less is more.

He wandered the halls but met no one. Certainly he was in the vampires castle, he'd smelled his scent on the pillow, but there had to be a human servant to venture through the bars of sunlight the poured into the halls through the windows. He paused in a square of light on the floor, letting the winter sun warm his shoulders as he considered his options.

He couldn't escape like this. He was unarmed, practically naked, penniless and he wasn't entirely sure how far he could run. His legs were already starting to protest to his activity so soon after his last faint. Even if he did escape and the vampire didn't hunt him down, where could a failed mercenary go? Not many people would take him in, especially if the No Life King was on his tail.

He sighed, tail swishing back and forth as he thought, the long fur brushing against the back of his breeches. He couldn't leave, but apparently he could still move about within the castle walls.

House arrest wasn't too bad…until cabin fever set in.

He shook the thought off. He would think about that later. In the meantime, he had to go find some kind of life form and ask for food. He didn't know when he had last eaten and an empty stomach wasn't any way to heal faster.

At the moment, his life depended on his health, on how well he would be able to fight off the vampire. As if he could fight that demon off…

"You didn't get my note."

He spun around to face where the voice had come from faster than its echoes could disappear from the air and silence could settle in again. The vampire prince was standing by a huge tapestry as if he had just stepped out from behind it. He was watching the werewolf, one hand untwisting the knots on the loose ends of the tapestry that someone had formerly tied. The vampire was glowering at him, but he couldn't think of why.

"Note?" the werewolf asked, glancing around the room again, just in case anyone else popped out of nowhere.

"That paper I left on your clothes, that note." The vampire was getting annoyed with him, he could tell by the flicker in those deep eyes.

Something flashed into his memory, a custom of his own people.

Never meet their eyes; it was considered a challenge to their power.

He didn't look away.

"It told you to go and take a bath. You reek of dog," the vampire continues.

"I am a dog." Matter-of-fact. The vampire sighed and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, all the annoyance had vanished.

"Come. I'll take you to the baths."

* * *

He'd never liked baths. His idea of a bath was dunking himself in a cold stream, scrubbing the dirt and lice off and jumping out again, hopefully before a chill set in.

But this, this was nice. The baths were really one big pool of hot, steaming, sweet mountain water, filled to the brim and scented with some kind of herb. With such luxury, no wonder the rich looked so clean.

He growled when a servant dumped a bucket of water over him and scoured his hair with soapy fingers. This part he didn't much like, the servant's hands were rough with his scalp and her fingernails were too long, but so long as it got rid of the fleas, he wasn't going to bite or complain.

The vampire was in the shadows somewhere, watching him silently. The human seemed unaware of him but the werewolf could hear the softest rustle of cloth on cloth on skin and the distant wisp of shifting hair. He was so enveloped with listening to the vampire's sounds that he didn't even notice the human leave until the door slammed shut behind her.

The vampire spoke then, "What is your name?"

"A strange thing to ask after we're stuck together for the rest of our lives," the werewolf muttered.

"If it doesn't please me, you'll change it; simple as that."

The werewolf grumbled, but knew he could do nothing about his situation. He sighed and leaned back against the side of the pool.

"Rothen," he said. There was a shifting of robes behind him and the next moment, the vampire was slipping into the water next to him, his pale skin almost as translucent as the water he waded in.

"Just Rothen?"

"Ja."

The vampire sneered briefly and leaned his head back to wet his hair.

"The name of a commoner…"

"I am a commoner."

The vampire looked at him, serious, studying him. He was probably trying to decide whether or not Rothen was actually as deadpan as he put on or if he had some sense of humor.

"Vladimir Dracula," the vampire stated.

"Could you please pick something a little less complex? I'm not very good with Romanian pronunciation," Rothen asked after trying the failing to get used to the new name on his tongue. The vampire gave him a smirk.

"Vlad."

"That will do."

/Or Master./ The vampire was practically leering now.

"Don't get cocky," the werewolf warned with a growl. He was uncomfortable with their close proximity now and held out a hand to hold off the slowly-approaching vampire. "And stay over there."

"We _are_ mates." The vampire moved still closer, bypassing his weak shielding and smiling toothily into his face.

"It's a state of being, nothing more."

"Nothing more?" The vampire, Vlad, was now too close. His cool breath was ghosting over his face.

"Why me? Why did you pick me?" Rothen asked.

"I've never had a mate before-"

"Perhaps convenience? I certainly couldn't carry on the next generation of your kin-"

"-And I've always wanted to know more about werewolves."

"-You mean you just want to know what it's like to fuck one," Rothen snapped.

Finally, a barb! The vampire's smiled vanished from his face the second his hand grabbed Rothen's jaw in a bruising grip. Rothen repressed a whimper at the pain, but did not lower his eyes and submit.

"I should think after two chances to take advantage of you that I let pass by, you would figure it out," the vampire hissed, barring fang.

"And yet you've not denied it," Rothen snarled back.

The vampire hissed louder, cursing and barring more teeth at him before shoving Rothen away, turning to lean out of the pool. Vlad bothered to pick up the robes he'd dropped, but did not bother to pull them back on and disappeared a moment later like a shift of the wind.

Rothen waited for his return or the sounds of guards sent to kill or imprison him. A few moments later, nothing moved and no sounds came and he let his shoulders relax a little. He sank back into the pool, deep enough to reach his lower lip and sighed, blowing ripples out into the still pool of steaming water.

His third encounter with the vampire prince had gone just about as well as the first and second. Was this an ill omen?

Had he any option to change that without submission to the vampire?

He sighed again.

He didn't think so.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 9_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Tell me, does anyone actually read this section?

Also, read my other fics, they are sexy-poco-cool!

Err…yeah…

* * *

**To my readers: **Thank you for your kind words. I really appreciate your reviews and I am very glad you're enjoying this story so far.

And please do not question my translations. I already said they were screwed up.


	10. I’m feeling motion sick…

**Author's Notes: **I edited this when I was on the road home from checking out my prospective college (Which apparently has caught the interest of my father, and he's hard to impress, so it seems I'll be going there after all. Woohoo.) It's at least two hours away from home, but it's in the same state, so I don't have to pay extra tuition charges, lucky me. I just hope I can get my grades up in time…

As I was saying, I edited this on the road. Since I get terribly carsick if I read in the car, and I had done an essay just before this, there might be some flaws I missed. I apologize for that, and if you catch them, feel free to rant at me. I doubt I'll get around to fixing them, but it's nice to know someone else is paying attention to my grammar besides me. Space Cadet me needs as much help as I can get. (laughs) Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 10: I'm feeling motion sick…

* * *

Year of Three Emperors  
London, England  
Year 1888 A.D. 

It was dark in the room when he opened his eyes. The fire had died down to embers and the thick curtains were drawn against the sun, but he was tucked into the burrow he'd dug into the sheets, sharing his warmth with the usually chill vampire who was wrapped around him. Chest to chest, the body beside him was still, not even breathing, lacking a heartbeat. The black head was tucked between his chin and collarbone, silent and calming by its presence, its familiarity. The edge of such close proximity was negated by the sense that while they were alone, the vampire couldn't physically hurt him without suffering backlash.

"You're awake." A gust of cold breath hit his shoulder and his sighed.

"Ja, and you too…"

"I never went to sleep," the vampire stated. He could feel the smiled against his skin, just the barest movement of lips. He pulled out of the vampire's grasp, resting again several centimeters away. He squinted into the dark, studying the vampire's face in the dim glow. Déjà vu, but he got that a lot. Time always overlapped; if you lived long enough, you'd know…you'd learn.

"We're still leaving? The boat sails this evening," Rothen said as he reached out to brush the long hair from his master's copper eyes. The vampire nodded the affirmative and turned his head to nip gently at the fingers.

"Later," the other said, reaching over the pull the werewolf back in his arms. Rothen could feel the vampire's too-long nose burrow into his hair and breathe in his scent, the chilly fingers gripping gently around him, holding him rather than holding him back. There was rarely a need to hold him back anymore.

"I'm tired," Vladimir's voice came again, softening the syllables on his half-sleeping state, blowing the fur on his ears.

"Then sleep, Master."

* * *

Sin virus. 

Hell and damnation vicars, shouting from their podiums, thumping their bibles like the madmen they were.

Rothen didn't like them, didn't like the noise and clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut against the oncoming headache that London was constantly pressing on him. Vladimir didn't seem to notice, his fingers twisting the long locks of his raven hair as he stared reflectively out the window of their carriage, watching London town pass before him. He looked sad, like he would miss it and would come back someday. Rothen expected as much, the vampire had had much fun here, but he was not so keen to return any time soon.

Their boat was leaving right before sunset, a small cruise liner that was popular for skirting around France and through the Mediterranean. It was larger than the last ship they had traveled o n, a trip in 1560 to France, but it seemed far less seaworthy. Rothen didn't trust something made entirely of metal to really float, and his nose rebelled the scent of iron he thought he had just escaped.

Now he would be encased in it.

Their tickets had been bought the day before, their luggage transferred from the house to carriage to shipyard to storage a few hours before their arrival. When the carriage stopped, they stumbled up the gangplank and locked themselves in their cabin. Vladimir was muttering about the human body odor fuming from the tiny bed, but Rothen ignored him and opened the window to let in the fresh air so his sense of smell wouldn't make him ill.

He pressed his forehead against the rim of the round window and breathed in deeply, taking in the vague smell of steel and iron and ancient London, the stink of seamen and the rotten wood of the wharfs and the tang of salt…he hadn't missed any of it. The vampire would be sick the while way and Rothen would have to deal with his snappish attitude without complaint, discreetly picking off the cats and mice to keep himself in good humor while his master groaned from starvation and seasickness.

Vladimir stripped the bed and then himself, laying down and pulling the spare blanket they had dragged from their bed that morning over his nudity, tucking his head in the crook of his arm. Rothen adjusted the chair so it sat nest to the bed and piled books and sketchpads and journals and pencils by the bowl on the nightstand and on the floor by the bed when no more would fit. The vampire didn't move.

"Perhaps you'd like to watch the launce?" the werewolf suggested. The vampire turned his face into his arm and sighed.

"I'd rather not," came his muffled voice, "You go enjoy yourself, I know how you'll celebrate leaving England."

Rothen's mouth twitched in a slight smile, ducking his head so his chin rested against his chest. The vampire knew him too well, nothing surprised him. He picked up his own battered and frayed sketchbook and tucked a pencil into the bindings and softly got to his feet.

"Of course I'll celebrate, we're going home," the werewolf said, hearing his smile din his tone. He was sure the vampire could too. A huffed laughed answered him.

"Only a dog would be so excited to go back to that dilapidated wreck of a castle."

"Naturally."

Rothen shut the door and silently climbed up the stairs, stumbling like a drunkard. He was not made for the sea. His legs faltered like a toddlers, but that wasn't so embarrassing now, not anymore. One stopped getting embarrassed about one's shortcomings when one was as old as he was.

He glanced around once he had reached the main deck, blinking the last remains of sunshine that burned like fiery magnesium in his master's experiments. Vampires were too curious for such demented legends, not at all like the werewolf clans, who were content with their spoken lore and didn't much care about geometry or science. Their few gods didn't stand for the way things worked in the world, nor for an afterlife or rebirth as trees in the forests, or rocks or streams or animals. They just didn't care, they were happier not knowing.

It was one reason why Rothen had never bothered himself to learn how to read. Surely he would curl up on his side of the beaten couch and listen to his master read aloud and would in turn tell his own tales and the tales of his tribes, but that was hardly the same thing.

He planted himself on a small bench by the railing, his stomach twisting slightly at the rock of the ship below his feet and dropped his hat onto his head to cover his ears. It was too hot a day to be wearing such a long coat, but he had to, lest his tail would be seen, and what a stir that would cause!

He sighed and flipped open his sketchbook, settling it into his lap, a blank, creamy page waiting for his next inspiration to take him. It came in the form of the shadows playing across the face of an elderly woman and her adult daughter, the way their hats and skirts flitted about in the wind and the soft expressions in their distant-looking eyes as they stared out to see, not looking back like the other people were to wave off friends and family. In his head, he was already making up a story about them speculating and wondering if it would serve as some small means of entertainment for his master. One could never tell.

He finished the sketch before the last dregs of sunlight filtered out of the moon-lit tea of night, and shut his sketchbook and contentedly made his way back to his and his master's cabin.

The vampire was dozing when he stepped in and did not start awake when he latched the door. Rothen checked the bowl if it needed dumping and was relieved that it did not. If his master was sick so soon after departure, they'd have to get off in France and travel by land to Romania, which would take weeks neither wanted to waste. Rothen set his sketchbook down on top of a pile by the bed and settled down in the chair, leaning his head back against the tallest rung and closing his eyes to rest.

He would've slept better on the floor, but he needed to stay awake enough so he could help his master when needed.

It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **(frolics in la la writer land) I need to get more sleep…(crashes from caffeine high) 

**

* * *

****To My Readers: **

**LunaTheLunatic:**Yes, I was addressing your spelling…but not to worry, the twitching will die down eventually. I'm just anal, pay me no mind. Thank you for your ardent reviews, though, they are appreciated.

As for the question about how long this fanfiction will be…

It'll end when it ends. I can disclose no more information. Sorry, Lovely, you'll just have to read more.

**kikonisha**: Thank you! I'm glad you're liking it! I'm afraid it isn't entirely historically accurate, though. I'm a bit timid after the whole Wikipedia incident a while back and I'm only pulling random facts that suit my fancy at the time.

About the translations…Babel Fish garbles everything, not just German. I used it for Italian a while ago and it really screwed it up. I appreciate your offer, but I think it would just take too long for me to send the text to you and have you send it back translated. That and I hate my email account…

In college I will be taking up a German Language course, so I could use the story to work on my translations, but until then, I think I'll stick with Babel Fish, to keep life simple.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**: Yes, I have other fics. May I ask if you're at all familiar with this website? I have a profile name, a hyperlink that will take you directly to my profile and you can look up the other fics yourself.


	11. Nightmares and The Wolves

**Author's Notes:** Has anyone here ever listened to the soundtrack to Lagaan? I keep playing it over and over and it's still pretty. It wasn't a significant part in the making of this chapter, but perhaps the next two I am already drafting? Either that or I'll be late in my own mental posting schedule because I'm busy dancing like an idiot…

Either way, I know I'm going to enjoy myself.

* * *

Chapter 11: Nightmares and The Wolves

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1262 A.D.

He had such rough skin, he thought vainly as he ran a hand down the outside of his forearms, a naked thigh. The water dripped from his form and pooled at his feet, chilly between the stone and the soles of his calloused feet. He sighed and pulled his tunic over his head, ignoring the ties at the frilled sleeves and neckline. The fabric spilled over his chest and exposing his shoulder as he leaned down to pick up his breeches and tug them over his hips, lacing the thin cord that served as a belt. He pulled the neck of the shirt back into place and strode to the door, his wet feet slapping on the floor as he moved with the rustle and snap of excess cloth. He moved too fast, his walk was too swift, and he didn't know where he was going.

He glanced out of windows. Into courtyards, gardens, guard posts along the outer wall that should've been impassable, the very wall he had shoved his way through in his hurry to get here and kill the king. Too swift in his movements, too swift in his thoughts. He never thought things through; he hadn't had the time, the patience. The witch woman that lived a time with his clan said it was a sign of a weak will, that he could never grown into anything worthy of his family's noble legacy and he had snorted at her, kicking dirt and spitting.

A weak will.

Maybe she was right then, this woman who knew him only from sighting the soul beneath his eyes, but she didn't know him and his draw to power, from power. Creatures flowed to him like the Christians to their martyrs, ripping pieces off of him and leaving his tattered skeleton for the crows, but not without giving him something in return. The life around him, the earth, his spiritual mother, had given him faith and life and power and continued to draw his will through her spindle, stretching the coarse wool of his mind until it resembled something sane, something strong. He was not the impressionable boy he had been before, where the water of other's personalities seeped through his fibers and warped him. Now he swallowed them, soaked them up and held them, but his form was unchanged, fat with knowledge until they were of no more use and he wrung his mind free of them.

He would do it to this vampire as he had done to all the others, wreck the hollow husk of this monster who thought it held him captive, prisoner. Resolve filled him like poison, thick on his tongue, dyeing his eyes a foreign, sickened orange, the color of the angry sky, calm before pelting rain. He could withstand this attempt to unravel his mind, could whip with the power his earth gave to him and sear the flesh and bone of the monster until it shrank away and fell apart, like dust in the sunshine. And what a beautiful sight it would be.

"You think you can kill me," a chuckle echoed down the halls. Rothen did not turn to see it, quite sure it wasn't necessary and deciding it didn't matter if it was. A smile itched at one side of his mouth, imperfect and totally his own, grounding for the lightning he felt resonating from his standing fur, spouting out of his mouth like a god's.

"I can kill you. I can rip you to pieces like ashes on parchment with the barest thought," he replied, his voice even, reviling in his inner strength, the fabric framework of his being. Strong as oak wood, pliant as a willow's bow.

"I believe that's quite impossible," the prince's voice countered, still amused.

"It is impossible to catch smoke and rain with one's hands, but use a pot and stopper and a man can possess as much as he needs." Rothen thought of his home, the hut-cave his mother slept in during the winter, when it was too cool for resting and playing beneath the night's sky, laying in the bowels of the earth mother, rather than reveling in the hair of the star and moonlight. A baby in the womb to emerge again in Spring. He thought of the earthenware jars, rough and crude, yet thick and heavy and strong, filled with herbs and painted with symbols he was too young to know, sharp edged when shattered, created under his mother's smooth, frail hands.

The voice did not reply, thinking him unimportant. The vampire was unwary of his tactical change, unaware of the strength he unearthed, his unwillingness to conform. He was fluid, flexible, like the woven thread, strong with the fibers wound around his single core to strengthen it, to protect it.

Even the strongest of ropes started from the smallest of threads.

* * *

Rothen submitted to the vampire only physically, letting the monster drag him around the castle for fittings and to sit on the stair by his throne in court and watch as the prince corrected the issues presented to him. Besides that, his time was free for his own choosing, during which he plotted his escape with all the fervent, desperate, clinging hope of any other prisoner. He thought of many ideas, but none of them really worked when he either tested them out theoretically or made his sad attempts in reality.

He was not very strong, not since his entrapment. Whatever the vampire had done to him had left him with a constant nauseated feeling and migraines so bad that he could not emerge from his room until well past dark. The moon would soon fill, and he wasn't sure how the change might affect him while he was so weakened. He was, for the first time in his life, not looking forward to it.

The full moon, while forcibly changing the were-clans into their respective animals, was a time of worship rather than terror. It was a time that they might completely shed their human personalities as well as their shells and truly feel the connection to the world around them that they craved. It was a time to run like mad, frantic coupling and bloodletting through hunting and sacrifice. It was a time without rules but the rules of the forest and sometimes a time for murder when the chains around their wolfish hearts were let down and old scores were traded for scars and death.

To Rothen, it was a time to spiritually find his home in the dense thickets that littered the craggy mountainside of this wretched country. He hated Transylvania and all it implied like he hated the wash of jet hair that fell over his face when the vampire prince saw fit to visit him, to entice or to rage at him, according to his mood. Like he hated the long nose, pale and flaring with breath as the vampire hissed when Rothen ignored his advances and shoved him away. Sometimes Rothen didn't even acknowledge him.

He was feeling weaker today, his bones melting like wet plaster under him whenever he tried to slip out of bed to piss, his head smarting with feverish delusions of monsters far worse than he had seen, his mother's voice soothing or swearing in accordance to the visions. Her murder washed over him again and again and he screamed and thrashed every time her blood streamed from the open crevice that was, just moments ago, her chest.

"Don't cry, pup, don't cry," she cooed, her lustrous eyes watching him with a kindness he hadn't known since his youth. She reached out to pat his head, take his hand but he shrank away, shuttering in disgust and terror. "Mother wants you to be strong, so be strong, pup. You'll not cry for me."

He shivered and trembled and sobbed at each gentle touch, at each soft whisper, sinking in and out of blackness and dream and not discerning one from the other. Like the drugs he had taken once as payment from a human village, he was trapped only within his own mind, projecting everything from the real world as something else entirely, something terrible because his imagination could conceive nothing else.

"Don't cry, pet," the vampire's voice cooed as he stroked his forehead with a damp cloth. The dark velvet of that voice enclosing and suffocating him. He was hyperventilating, his eyes were wide and blind, addressing only the wine red above him, thatched in dark fur and smelling of feral dog.

Dogs within humanoids. He could understand them, he was one himself.

Was it so wrong to submit to one's own kind? He was practically a clan member with longer teeth and poor digestion and a too-long nose and strange southern hair. He was not German, but he was something else acceptable, his skin flaxen instead of his hair and his eyes red like the were-chief father's eyes he knew only as an infant. Rothen reached up and stroked the long hair, soft as just-groomed fur, that tumbled over the vampire's broad-but-stooped shoulders like the madness that dripped from his eyes and voice. Lightning and madness…a combination like that could conquer the world.

"I understand," Rothen whispered, his voice hoarse and rough from fits of screaming and the burn of sickened vomit. He was only pretentious in his hideousness, but not repelling.

The vampire seemed surprised, wondering if he was lucid. Rothen wondered himself, his eyes sinking softly closed again for the first restful slumber he'd had in a week. Vladimir's eyes were saying 'what?'

He wasn't submitting at all. Two males, two mates, two equals in their separate kingdoms. Their combination was perfect in joining the two, in perhaps ending the great war that had been carried on since the beginning of their individual existences. It was not an unworthy joining, for he was of royal blood himself.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 11_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **While rereading and editing this chapter, I found myself a little confused. I'm wondering if anyone feels that way and if it's a constant in my writing this way?

Anyway, I'm a bit disappointed with myself by taking the easy route in developing Rothen's character this way. While it does reveal a little more about the elusive werewolf, but not too much, I'm almost ashamed that I played him out as the typical suffering uke. But then, all my popular characters are significantly damaged somehow.

Oh yes, about the uke thing…it isn't true at all. Rothen will in no way submit to Alucard, it isn't in his personality. I'll get into it later…maybe. Also, I'm taking my poetic license and remodeling the werewolf legends for my own means. Some thing might remain the same, as they do for vampires in the manga, but I plan to change and expand the race and perhaps make it a bit more believable. Like Alucard's vampiric world, which I haven't really stepped into, I want the Lycans to have some depth.

Otherwise, what fun would it be to write this fanfiction?

* * *

**To My Readers: **Let's not annoy the authoress…

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**The next chapter will arrive when it arrives. We wouldn't want anything premature, now would we?

**kikonisha**Yes, having free time is a good thing when used properly. You could use it to read more lovely fanfiction, for exmple.

**Zoe: **You spelled 'loving' incorrectly. What have I told you about spell check, Zo? And I don't much mind you bugging me unless I'm editing, you should know that by now. I could always use the enthusiasm when I get sick of writing. Oh, and thank you for the Lagaan soundtrack, it brings this aspiring authoress much joy and inspiration.

* * *

**P.S.: **My birthday is next Saturday, the 25th of the month. (Hint, hint, send in nice reviews…) 


	12. John Bull

**Author's Notes: **This is a particularly short chapter, certainly not the shortest on record, but then, there isn't much substance to this one. Enjoy it, the fluff probably won't last.

* * *

Chapter 12: John Bull

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX

/If you get yourself locked up again, it's entirely your fault/ The vampire's mind was crackling with annoyance.

/I'll wash my hands of you/

Rothen could not reply, still languid in his half-awakened state. He'd only just woken up moments ago from his forced slumber and was seriously considering eating that cow he smelled two doors down from his master's bedroom. He was quite certain that the vampire wasn't all that angry with him, as he hadn't left him on the floor to wake up stiff and sore. He was annoyed, to be sure, but not angry.

_How very Christian of you,_ he thought back snarkily, a devious grin spreading across his face. His eyes were flickering with humor, though he didn't laugh.

He rarely laughed anymore.

The vampire measured him with his eyes, not smiling. He was leaning back in a simple wooden armchair, sucking the straw in a bag of chilled blood. He couldn't imagine it was any good and felt suddenly grateful for the cow. At least his food would be warm, and he would feel the joy of frenzied heartbeats while he killed. To drink blood rations cold…he grimaced.

_The saying, 'Wash my hand of you'…Certainly you remembering from the bible?_ Rothen ventured and the vampire nodded.

"I remember. You never liked that story."

"I still don't," the werewolf said, finally finding his voice. It was thick with sleepiness and slightly sore from the dry, musty air of the basement. "It hardly seemed polite."

The vampire finally laughed, whooping loudly as he tossed the empty bag to the side and leaned forward in the chair, leaning over the side of the bed.

"He came here to die for our sins. Politeness was hardly expected," Alucard explained.

"What a load of nonsense. Christians…I'll never understand them and their myths," Rothen sighed as he rolled onto his side and tucked his hand under his ear.

"Who will die for your sins, I wonder?" the werewolf asked quietly. The vampire blinked at him, caught off guard for the first time in half a century…or longer.

"What?"

"It's nothing, just an old werewolf's senile moments," Rothen said though a soft smile, "Pay me no mind."

He slowly sat up and edged himself off the bed and onto his feet. He took tentative steps to the door and left to find his meal.

* * *

He's never once worried about his soul…

It would be amazing if it wasn't so sad. No heart, no soul…and yet he isn't a shell. His mind is still mostly intact, still as sane as could be expected for one as old as he is. He and pain have some kind of long-standing agreement that I have never understood. With that agreement he had never submitted to me, has made himself my equal in both power and status. He is a god among his people, the clans that had shunned him five hundred years ago.

He's far stronger than most understand, than most can consider. Even the probing scientists couldn't reach the depths of power that I alone know completely without suffering the payment myself. I can feel the potency in him resonate through our link, a ripple, a presence in my peripheral vision that makes me turn to see nothing but ghosts, to vanish the moment they are focused on. The rot of the earth, his blood mother, grants him such vitality, so he says, but he has never gone far in explaining his own strange religion.

Both a murderer and a Druid, his movements fluid and sure through many years of life. I can only imagine his abilities on the battlefield of today.

He will refuse to learn modern weaponry, to adapt as I have. He and Darwin were always at odds in that fashion, he has survived though he has never truly adapted to anything. He changed his surroundings to his liking, not the other way around and even humans can't help but admire that. They took after their wolfish siblings, naturally, as the younger daughter will apply makeup to mimic her teenaged sister. What monkeys, these humans, they never have grown up.

He'll take up the bow again, reharness his sword fighting abilities, grit his teeth through his own personal hell of training to get his body back into prime shape. He is physically older now, his age seeping through the magic I use to keep him alive. Thirty years away from me hasn't done him any good. There are some gray streaks in his hair now, very faint, but I can see them. I noticed a certain dullness in his eyes after I woke him in the tower, some of the life in them didn't return when I let him drink my blood. He often stares out into space, thinking or remembering, I cannot say, he's shields those thoughts from me. He laughs it off, those times of unusual silence, when he is so still I think he could be a statue.

And now he is wobbling out the door and down the halls, pushing open the door to a small room and shutting it closed behind him. The room is dark, but he sees as if it were early twilight, his eyes glowing yellow-red in the mock night as he circles his prey. The cow cries out, screams and falls silent in seconds. How efficient a killer he is, the perfect artist licking up the blood in his own, rather catlike manner.

I sit back in my chair and sigh, the slightest of smiles on my lips as I imagine the sight of my lover savoring his meal, the blood smearing his face in a mockery of lipstick, smashed and spread over his mouth as if from passionate kissing. We've had many amusing nights reenacting such a sight, but those are in the past, for when we were younger.

Remembering, how unlike me, the one who never looks back.

It was always Rothen to remember, to store information and savor a memory. He has such a span of just one object that I would never notice and never bother about and he can spend hours comprehending the meaning of someone's speech a hundred years old.

Thinking makes me feel old. Rothen makes me think…the wretched monster…

_Would you like some?_ he asks, his face swinging around the doorframe, spattered with blood just as I imagined. His hair is loose and wild, like his smirk, his wise eyes as he watches me get out of the chair and moved toward him.

After all, who am I to turn up a warm meal?

* * *

_Fin Chapter 12_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Woo, how'd you like the change in perspective? I decided first person would be interesting in Alucard's eyes, kind of gives you a different look at Rothen…Even though this chapter doesn't accomplish much more than moving from one scene to the next, I do believe it's one of my favorites. Lagaan had a hand in this…Indian music is so pretty.

OH! No, no, I was not taking a crack as the Christian church. I'm a Catholic myself, however non-practicing, so I can understand if Rothen's comments might rub the fanatics…er…Andersons…er…might rub some in the audience wrong…I'm used to poking comments at just about everyone…I'm kind of like Denmark like that.

No one is safe from the mockery that is my wit…Oh, I just want to cackle…

And what do you know…two days for this chapter, versus the week it took me to compose, edit, reedit and generally tweak my last chapter. A record perhaps? Who knows…maybe it's a good sign. I'm trying not to fall back on paranoia here…

In reference to the title of the chapter…since this snippet mentions age repeatedly, I decided to refer to the lovely manga for one of Walter's inane comments. There is one time, in book number three.

"Hmph…old age is something to enjoy for we John Bulls." So quotes the butler. John Bulls, if one does not remember, means 'Englishmen'. I thought the play on words was entertaining…maybe it was just stupid.

Feedback?


	13. Inner Daemons, Vices, and The Virtue of

**Athor's Notes:** And finally, after perhaps two weeks (?) of a creative slump and an hour and a half of work and I finally pop out two completely different chapters in two fanfictions…I'm surprised it didn't take me much longer, though I have to work on the other story and get the chapters back into order (of stupid of me to step out of line, as I am likely to confuse myself terribly).

God, I love writing.

* * *

Chapter 13: Inner Daemons, Vices, and The Virtue of Nobility

* * *

Year of Three Emperors  
Somewhere along the European coast  
Year 1888 A.D.

* * *

" 'We see in the needle-works and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed: for prosperity doth best discover vice; but adversity doth best discover virtue.'"

"You do realize how paradoxical that speech is, don't you?" the werewolf growled as he folded the freshly arrived towels into piles and tucked them away in the towel cubby. He patted the yellow linen once and turned to glower at the vampire.

"Well, it never ceases to inspire me," Vladimir said, almost sheepishly if it wasn't for the linger of warning in his eyes. The werewolf ignored it and forged ahead in his interrogation.

"You haven't been ill all week, for most of the trip, in fact. That's impossible."

"You make me sound like some invalid," the vampire replied, fussing with a tattered tassel on the blanket.

"You are," the werewolf accused, his tail bristling even more that it was before. Vladimir turned and looked at him, studying him for just a moment before turning back to the tassel, as if listening to the other wasn't worth his time.

"And this apartment, it reeks of human," Rothen continued, "You haven't been picking off the people on this ship, have you? You'll ruin our disguise!"

"Rothen, do shut up."

"And you clothes, they stink of females!"

"And what of it?" the vampire countered, finally turning to him. Rothen stopped in his rant and stared at the vampire, horror mixed with surprise filling him as he finally came to his conclusion. By the look in the vampire's eyes, he was suspecting correctly. His emotions swam with anger so strong the fur on his ears was standing on end.

"What?" he asked very gently, a voice he might've used on a human victim. It was smooth, polished with a dangerous edge, like a blade and Vladimir almost flinched to hear it, for fear of it physically cutting him.

"Vladimir…" the werewolf continued, moving closer to the chair the vampire was sitting on slowly, "Are you consorting with human women?"

"Oh please, save me the grief. It isn't the first time and neither shall it be the last just because you got your fur rubbed wrong," the vampire snapped, "Besides, she's quite charming."

"I save you the trouble of introducing us," Rothen growled, his lips sneered at one corner. He turned away and started stacking books in his disgust.

"Stop acting so snubbed, Rothen, you sound like a woman."

And with that, the werewolf whirled upon Vladimir and landed a smack on his cheek so strong the sound of it resonated through the entire room and the vampire's head snapped to the side, his cheek flushed and bleeding from the deep gouges Rothen's claws had cut into it. The werewolf was standing over him, furious.

"A woman, am I?" Rothen challenged, "Couldn't you come up with something less cliché?"

He turned and made his way smoothly to the door, somehow walking in a straight line, though their things made a zig-zag path on the floor. He paused with his fingers on the doorknob, turning to face the vampire. His eyes were leveling him, judging him and finding him unworthy of even more than the glance granted to place his importance. At least he'd amounted to the glance…

Nobility was pulling his chin into the air, forcing those fiery eyes to look down his nose at him, keeping his face emotionless, cool, remote. He'd never looked at the vampire like this, not even in the beginning. It was a look that told him the werewolf could leave any time he wished, that he didn't care what happened to either of them so long as his own altered, idealistic form of justice was served.

"You're absolutely below me, you pathetic leech," he said in a voice that would've been haughty if he wasn't of royal breed.

And with that, he opened the door, slid out into the hall and slammed the metal portal shut again.

The vampire would meet with the woman, Ingrid, several time for the rest of the voyage and eventually travel with one another to Romania and Transylvania, but he wouldn't see Rothen again until several months later.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 13_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **And I'm already working on the next chapter, mentally and with lots of note taking. The quote in the first paragraph was what actually inspired this chapter, though it had little to do with it, but for the literal meaning:

'We see in the needle-works and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed: for prosperity doth best discover vice; but adversity doth best discover virtue.'

Sir Francis Bacon, from his essay, _On Adversity_  
Directly quoted from 50 Great Essays­­, Pages 49-50, edited by Houston Peterson;  
Pocket Books, New York, N.Y., 1954 

And indeed, I know it isn't cited correctly. I couldn't find it in my Writer's Inc.

I also like Arthur Schopenhauer's essay _On Noise._ Read it someday, it's actually quite funny.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Lunathelunatic: **Yes, your spelling is better, thank you. And I am glad you are enjoyed the story. Yes, I know it was short, but keep in mind; it was a filler chapter after all. I wasn't feeling creative that day. I hope this one meets with your approval.

And no, I'm not being sarcastic.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**

_Chapter 11: _Thank you and happy early, early birthday. And, Sweetheart, reviews are anything but annoying.  
_Chapter 12: _Were there any doubts? 


	14. By Royal Decree Does Royal Blood Spill

**Author's Notes: **I'm tired and I ache. Three more weeks of school and I'm free! FREE! Anyway, between driving school, work, piano practice, movies, homework and sleep, I popped out another chapter just for you guys. Aren't you a lucky bunch? Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 14: By Royal Decree Does Royal Blood Spill

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1263 A.D.

* * *

"You are nobility and yet no one comes to retrieve you. It is strange," the vampire said absently from behind his book, his eyes peeking over the top to watch Rothen staring out the window. The werewolf paused in his study of the darkened world and turned to Vladimir. 

"You know?" the werewolf asked, though he hardly sounded surprised.

"Your blood gave it away. It's too pure to be the product of anything but cross-breeding," Vlad replied, his eyes still curious. Rothen turned back to the window and breathed a foggy circle on the glass, drawing pictures with his pinky as if the conversation had never occurred. The whole window was covered by now, excepting the higher portions where he could not reach.

"It is a custom of my people to mate a relative, Ja." He turned away from his nearly finished finger-drawing and raised an eyebrow at the gilded cover of the vampire's book, all he could see of the other's face having gone back to hiding behind it. "Are you surprised at your good fortune?"

"A little unnerved, actually. I expected some werewolf army to come chasing after you…"

"And yet, months later, and it has not occurred." Rothen went back to the window and wiped it clean of pictures, breathed on it again and got to practicing his runes.

"Why is that?" The vampire was back to studying him again, the huge book now lowered in his lap. The suspicion in his voice was like a finger on the back of his neck and Rothen wanted badly to stay facing the window, and when he turned, it was not of his own accord.

Rothen looked everywhere but at the vampire, his eyes flickering to the huge fireplace, framed with slate hearth and carved stone mantle, at the layer of shelves of books, hundreds of books that the vampire prince had collected, at the lavish bear rug or the couch on which Vladimir was reclining, on the deep velvet robes that pooled around the dark prince.

"I…" he began, then stopped, his eyes finally meeting the vampire's. He was acting like prey again…they were equals. He had nothing to hide, after all, why pretend?

"I am not wanted in my clan. They think I am cursed," he said, biting the words out through his sharp teeth like seeds.

And eyebrow shot up into the black hairline and those red eyes regarded him with even more suspicion. Of course…he could've worded that better…

"Cursed?"

"Ja. My people very highly regard the rune readings." He motioned to the window, now covered with strange markings he let the vampire assume were runes. "They speak of the future, present and past, not just of the general party, but the happenings in the world and how some individuals might affect them. My fortune was thrown at my birth and found despicable. My mother and I were exiled soon after."

Rothen smiled coldly. The vampire looked dubious, but not willing to toss his statement away as superstition. The werewolves were mysterious creatures with their own level of magic and the fortunes they read were not to be taken lightly as human soothsayers were. The werewolf nodded once and turned back to the window, deeming the subject closed.

"You need not worry, none shall follow me."

"What was the curse?" the vampire asked, curiosity evident. Rothen wanted to ignore him, but knew he wouldn't be able to unless he gave an answer. The werewolf sighed a little dramatically and gave the vampire another smile, his reflection carrying it across the room like a dark mirror. He looked feral in the window, his eyes simply crevices of black, removing all the flickering light in the fire from the glass pane.

"Some other time I shall tell you."

And that was all he said.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 14_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **I am a philosophical zombie. Give me your brains!

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Chinese Dragon Keeper** I was being sarcastic. And yes, I figured it was about time someone did, Alucard is kind of a bastard.

**escape5**Suggestion? I know not of this 'suggestion' you speak of…(snort)

**lunathelunatic: **Readers only annoy when they suddenly get unimaginative with their praise or flames. As you have not strayed into that category, you're fine. Ask all you want, I keep my own schedules (I do have work and school, after all). Thank you for the compliments, but I'm afraid I still have a lot of work before I feel my skill is up to publishing par (besides the one bit of work I'm still hoping to send in). And about waiting five months to post a new chapter…I do the same thing. You should read my other stories. One of them I forget so often that when I go back to post I loose the plot. I know the end of it and I really feel no need to continue with it. Besides, when I go back and look at the actual writing, I'm embarrassed. (laughs) It happens to us all, I suppose. Keep writing, Luna-dear, and don't forget your readers!


	15. Rain and Runes

**Author's Notes: **Yes, this took too long. No, I haven't yet lost the plot. Go me. I'm waiting for the eighth book to come out already. Who's with me? Anyway, watching the first half hour of an awful movie called Dracula 2000 this morning prompted me to finally finish drafting and editing of this chapter. I've begun working on the next chapter.

* * *

Chapter 15: Rain and Runes

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX

* * *

They were kissing, long and slow and explorative. Tongue against tongue against smooth interior cheek and slick against sharp teeth. Eyes half closed, slits of gold and ashy red, unfocused. Slim fingers combing through hair as open mouths moaned against one another, as close, as intertwined as twins at birth.

Rothen pulled away, his face inches away from the vampire, weakly struggling against the hand that cupped his head and clutched at the small of his back. It was just as well, he probably couldn't quite stand on his own just then. It took him a moment to get his wits together, time enough to get a noseful of the vampire's scent, enough to make his eye drowse again.

"You're trying to distract me," Rothen hissed as the vampire nosed along his jaw.

"It's working," Vladimir said, smiling. Rothen pulled away against, wrenching himself out of the vampire's grasp altogether.

"You're taking your little pet with you, but not me. You can imagine my displeasure," Rothen said, growling.

"Orders," the vampire replied with a shrug. Rothen barked suddenly, anger flashing in his eyes.

"She's a fledgling, useless! She won't even drink blood and you expect her to fight a war for you? Certainly even your tart of a 'mistress' could understand the impossibility of the plan she's concocted!"

"Rothen…" the vampire shushed calmly, pulling the werewolf against him again and carding his hands through Rothen's hair, smoothing his ears down. Once the werewolf was relaxed, almost purring against him, he continued, "She would let me take you, but she isn't sure about your mental state. To be quite frank, I'm not positive myself. I don't think you're stable enough to take such a trip."

Rothen snorted. "Guess who's sleeping on the sofa when he gets back…"

"Please understand my reasoning, Rothen…Thirty years in the tower…I shouldn't have left you so long alone…"

Rothen sighed and slipped away, toward the door, his hand on the knob and his eyes sadly reminiscent. He remembered a time when they had once been inseparable, pack mates, utterly flawless in the hunt, in their daily lives. He remembered a time before Vladimir's fall when he would do anything, kill anyone so long as it kept him safe.

So many years ago…thinking about it made his bones creak and his hair feel gray with age.

"No," the werewolf said softly, "You shouldn't have."

He opened the door and quietly made his way to the library.

Just because Vladimir couldn't do anything about the past didn't mean he couldn't blame him for it.

* * *

They were fighting again, the lieutenant and the fledgling. They made such a racket when he was trying to focus. Rothen looked up from the bovine bone he was carving and growled. They didn't hear him and kept on. He wanted to shoot them both.

"You just shot the 'ostages…"

"At least I got my shot down there, which is more than you can say!"

Rothen looked down the range and smirked. Indeed, the police girl had eliminated the cardboard truck full of papier-mâché people. He snorted. Nice…

He looked up at the window he knew his master was watching from and gave the shadow a look saying, 'And you're taking _her_ with you? Are you crazy?'

He went back to carving his runes.

* * *

He'd never seen Vladimir look so…stylish…not in a half century, at least. It was a pleasant change from that garish hat, if anything.

Vladimir gave him a look over his shoulder in the mirror as he attempted to tie his tie. It was interesting, watching the clothes moving around with no body inside, but he was used to it. Cufflinks, white slacks and suit, pale purple shirt and hideous tie. Rothen smirked as he combed his fingers through the long black hair, which was behaving for once and offered the red-orange sunglasses to the gloved, outstretched hand.

He smoothed the suit along his master's shoulders and stood on his tip toes, his lips against the other's ear.

"I threw the runes for you," he said quietly, sharp teeth in danger of giving the vampire a piercing, "There's a man there to fight you among the expected others. He isn't with the church, my guess, but something else more sinister."

"More sinister than the church? Is there such a thing in your opinion?" Vladimir laughed.

"Perhaps a remnant of my homeland? The runes were vague about that. This man, he is not a match for you, but do try to be careful all the same. There will also be the Regenerator you spoke of before, the religious man. He will help you more than once. You are paying attention?"

"How could I not when you're practically chewing on my ear?"

"Vlad…"

"Your predictions are always correct; I think by now I've learned to listen to them." The werewolf sighed and stepped away to let Vladimir pack some last things, including his red suit in the simple coffin, tucked within the satin.

"I'll tell Integra to put you on the line when I call?" the vampire offered when he felt Rothen's wary eyes on him. The werewolf shook his head. He had never liked technology.

"She'll inform me as to when you'll be coming back. She has a habit of speaking to me, though she knows I won't answer."

"Just as well," Vladimir laughed and latched his coffin shut. He looked up at Rothen and sighed. "Don't cause any trouble."

The werewolf simply smiled, "Who me?"

* * *

_Fin Chapter 15_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **I love working on this story to Dvorak. I think he's one of my favorite composers. I especially enjoy Slavonic Dance No. 2 in e minor, Op. 46, "Dumka". Ah…period music…wrong chapter, though. (laughs)

To find the picture of sexy, stylish, modern Alucard, please refer to book number 3 of the Hellsing series, Page 21 (or thereabouts). The next few chapters are going to be both a little confusing and out of order, but all shall be right eventually…I hope.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**Actually, I'm on my last week now. I have exams Monday through Thursday this week and then I'm free to go. Since I finished an essay that stood for my Creative Writing exam, which I have tomorrow, I'm set to go for an easy day. It's why I'm not in bed now doing something normal…like sleep. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

**Silvermane1**Thank you.

**Karen:** Thank you so much for the compliments. I do try to keep this interesting.

I'm a bit ADD when it comes to writing, nothing's in a straight line. I think the memory thing was a fun idea and I'm glad someone else shares the sentiment.

That totally sucks! Two weeks of exams! Man…I bet you can't wait until you get out of school. Summer's coming, just hang on there.


	16. Myth

**Author's Notes: **So now I'm more or less out of school. This is great! Bad thing about this summer? I'm working the entirety of it, plus taking remedial math courses for college. I'm seriously regretting not accepting Frostburg…(sigh) This is all for a good cause, though. Now I have diplomatic leverage against a master puppeteer. Also, if I go to MC, I can transfer to the real college I want to go to. God, I can't wait.

* * *

Chapter 16: Myth

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1263 A.D.

* * *

"Relentless and ruthless hunters in the night, they ran, the first of all the werewolves, of an entire nation. The Adam and Eve of the night folk, who walked on both four feet and two, and took the shapes of any and all creatures and things, whatsoever pleased them. Before Romulus and Remus, before Babylonia and before the gods of old. Before man painted their first cave wall and before the apes thought to take to a higher being. When the cats refused domestication and before the monsters of the deep were scourged from their homes by disbelief, were the two greats of the nighttime world. 

"Their children, for there were many, split into the factions we know now today, much like the Jews of Canaan and so many other tribes, but none have lasted so long as the unlife brotherhood, of the werebeings and the vampires, who where children of the Wer. Werecats, werebears, foxes, wolves and rats and so many other animals call to these formost of their roots as gods. The mother goddess, the Earth and woodlands and family, was worshipped by the Wer. The father god, god of night, of air and of war, was taken in by the violent clans of Vampires, the later, often though better of the Wer.

"Two even halves to balance the scale of unlife, they lived in harmony for many years until the humans came. The vampires and Wer took to the hunt of humans, but what they had once called joint territory was suddenly deemed as hunting grounds, and if any passed upon another's hunting grounds, they were severely punished. Clan fought clan fought distant cousin. It still wages today, in the bowels of the night, in the dark streets humans dare not enter out of instinct.

"It was prophesized that there would be another two, another father and mother goddess who would end the wars. Both sides fought and waited, but year after year, they never arrived. More of the sons and daughters died until deep into what was known as the Dark Ages, a time of great suffering for the humans, the through them, the unlife clans.

"The story of the first two, of the mother and father gods, is also of great strife. The mother goddess was a warrior, a huntress, strong and sleek like the water that stretches across the vast distances of the Earth, who fought beast and enemy with a skill that matched none. She was a proud one, and the beasts held her in great honor.

"There were rumors, though, of another great warrior, one who was even stronger than the mother goddess. The great god of darkness and death, the opposite of all the mother goddess stood for, was waging his own wars upon the world of beasts and early creatures. She donned her armor and met the god at dayset, just after it was legend that he awake. They fought, so hard the earth beneath their feet trembled, but it was over quickly. The father god, master of all fighting craft, had pulled her most precious heart out, the heart that felt all her mercy for the Earth, and devoured it."

"Could your stories get any more depressing?"

"You asked me what I thought this was and so I've told you. You have to admit to the similarities."

Vladimir growled, absently flicking his hand at the werewolf, as if he were tossing water at him.

"I know nothing of Wer histories. And if they are as dull as you make them, I've no interest either."

"I think I'm a good storyteller," Rothen protested. Vladimir laughed quietly and moved to throw a fresh log on the fire. He would've gotten a servant to do it, but he had sent them away so that he and the werewolf might speak in private.

He was regretting the impulse. It seemed the werewolf was quite mad. Fortune telling, those ridiculous runes and now his rants over legends that were nothing more than farie tales…he sounded like one of those Christian priests that were so popular on the countryside these days.

"Stick to the lute, you're better at it."

The werewolf stuck his tongue out at him.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 16_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **If the characters, scenes, events, or anything else resembles anything like real life, you'd better call the police, because there's about to be a vampire Nazi invasion on your ass.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Silvermane1: **Ice, Ice, Baby! (Break dances)

**Morality: **I can, and lo! I have! (waits for applause)

Chinese Dragon Keeper: Tee, hee, summer school. Don't feel bad, though, I have to take a catch up course for college because I'm terrible at math. Good luck, Dearie! 


	17. End of the Age

**Author's Notes: ** I'm up to thirteen stories. What an unlucky number! And yet, I don't feel the urge to change it just yet. Who knows, maybe it'll be a good thing to carry such a number for a little while. Like in _Midnighters_…

* * *

Chapter 17: End of the Age

* * *

Year of Three Emperors  
Romania  
Year 1888 A.D.

* * *

The runes clacked against one another in the rough wool bag he kept them in, tied safely onto his belt with a string tie. The creaky leather of his boots was washed with dark mud and the rained soaked his cloak. It rained often in Transylvania, icy as it slid down the back of his neck and over his face. His hair was sopping and swung in his face, but he was not yet uncomfortable.

He slammed his fist against the thick wooden door of the castle's outer gate and forced his way past the butler. He shook off his cloak, his outer layers and his boots. He shivered slightly at the chill air, thankfully lacking the cold gusts that had pelted him all the way here. The butler was asking his name, did not recognize him…He reeked of human flesh…

"Rothen," he snarled," And you go tell my master I am here on urgent business."

"The master is currently busy…perhaps you would like to-"

"You'll get him NOW!" the werewolf shouted. The human shrank away from him and gaped at his lack of propriety. He did well to collect himself and cleared his throat. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke again.

"Perhaps you will wait while I-"

"I'll get him myself." The butler was stuttering for a response, but Rothen was already moving, swiftly making his way through the hall to the master bedroom. It was a long run, the castle never ran in a straight line, but Rothen made it there in record time. He burst through the heavy doors, knocking a large candlestick over when the door hit it.

The room was dim, lit only by the slight flicker of sparse candlelight. It was almost too dark to see the shapes on the bed, tangled in the sheets as they came to a startled awareness.

"Rothen?" the master vampire growled, the blonde woman beside him scrambling for covers. Rothen spared her a glance for a split second before turning back to Vladimir.

"The end of your world is near."

"What possessed you to come back?" Vladimir spat, quickly getting out of bed, pulling a sheet with him as he moved toward the werewolf as if he would attack him.

"You've never listened to me before, but you must now. To ignore me is your doom."

"Listen to yourself!" Vladimir shouted. Rothen didn't smile and jabbed a finger accusingly at the blonde still in Vladimir's bed, in the very spot he had once occupied.

"And this woman is the beginning of your end! This woman is a traitor to your affections!" he screamed.

A smack and Rothen hit the floor, cheek inflamed. He looked up at the vampire, shock and hurt in his eyes.

"Mongrel…How dare you make such accusations? You think divination is truth, but it's not! It's a load of horse shit, that's what it is! Get out!"

Rothen hesitated, his hand clutching for the bag at his belt. He quickly unlaced it and held it up for the vampire to take. Vladimir snarled and slapped the hand away, the runes falling to the floor and clattering out of the bag. Rothen's eyes automatically went to them, reading them quickly. The vampire lifted him by his collar, so he couldn't finish, but he knew what he had to do to stop this future.

He bit down hard on the vampire's arm, scratching and kicking for his life. Vladimir dropped him and Rothen landed on the stone floor feet first, a mass of pain. The thorn in his mind resonated with the vampire's pain, but he ignored it, already moving for the bed.

The woman saw him and screamed, but he was on her a second later, his hands pressing down on her throat with the intent to crush it.

The woman reached under her pillow and pressed a pistol against where his heart should've been. His hands tightened, but he was thrown back by the shot when she pulled the trigger, the silver bullet burning through him. He howled and slid to the floor, hazy eyes watching the woman in surprise.

She was on her feet, wrapped in a blanket, the pistol in one hand and a stake in the other.

"I was hoping to wait a little longer, but your mad little pet has forced my hand," she said. The butler opened the door and stepped in, holding another stake and a hammer at his sides.

Vladimir watched the woman, his eyes swimming with anger.

'Oh sure…you listen to me now…' Rothen thought at him bitterly as he writhed on the floor, the cold seeping through him to his bones. Darkness was closing on him…

_You knew…_

'The runes never lie.'

"I am Von Hellsing, and Ingrid is my daughter," the butler said. Vladimir hissed at him.

"I thought you were a bit muscular for a butler…"

"Indeed."

The fight the ensued was loud, but Rothen's eyes had shut, exhausted from pain and the miles he had run to get here. There was swearing, the woman screaming, and a sickening squish. Then suddenly silence…

Rothen forced his eyes open again, the room swimming before him. Ingrid and Von Hellsing were standing over the vampire, a stake sunk deep in his chest. Even in obvious pain, Vladimir snorted.

"So I lost?" he said tiredly. Hellsing didn't seem quite as amused.

"That's right, you lost. No nightmare lasts forever."

Vladimir laughed again, blood coming up instead of noise. He choked and spat it out, let it run down his chin.

"Miserable No Life King! Everything you had is now gone!"

Vladimir looked over at Rothen sadly. They both knew what silver could do to a werewolf. Even a little could poison the strongest pack leader…

'I'll find you,' Rothen thought desperately. Vladimir had already lost a lot of blood and was moving on to unconsciousness, but his amber eyes were still fixed on his, lamp bright. 'I swear to it. I'll find you, Vlad.'

A soft mental chuckle came through their link and rumbled through Rothen's chest and down his spine. It made the fur on his tail stand slightly on end.

_I'll be waiting, then. _

And then he broke the link. Rothen passed out.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 17_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Page 93-95, book 4 of _Hellsing_. The dialogue had been…modified to my use, but not too badly maimed I hope. Didn't edit this beyond spell check. Sorry.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Morality: **Jeeze…was I going for cute? You becha.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper: **You'd better be kidding. I wouldn't want a bunch of crazy Nazi vamps on me! I've no interest in being a ghoul, no way!

Thank you, and I shall.


	18. Return of the Monster

**Author's Notes:** I hate my job, I really do. It's a good experience, but a bit of a dead end. I feel as if I'm wasting my time there. And I'm worried about college. I suppose everyone goes through these woes, but I feel as if I take another step closer to adulthood I'm going to give something up that I'd rather not.

* * *

Chapter 18: Return of the Monster

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX

* * *

Once the plane took off and Sir Integra and her butler arrived at the mansion again, Rothen was roving the halls for them. Integra was in her office, filing papers or something, but it took a bit longer to find Walter. He was dusting an expensive-looking vase in the foyer and the werewolf felt a smile pull at one corner of his mouth. He flopped down on an antique couch near the butler and gave him the most innocent of his tooth-baring grins.

"How long will he be gone?" the werewolf asked, watching the glittering monocle in the light as Walter turned to face him, one eyebrow raised.

"Not more than a few days. Sir Ingetra can't afford to have him away much longer than that. Hellsing can't afford it." Rothen snorted.

"Psh, Hellsing. I remember a time when you weren't so uppity about this wretched corporation." Walter was unperturbed and went back to his dusting.

"Things change, opportunities change. Unlike you and Alucard, we humans get old," the butler said quietly. Rothen leaned back in the couch and propped his chin on the arm rest.

"Doesn't change the fact that you can still kill."

"Anyone can kill," was Walter's reply. Rothen shook his head and the butler turned back to him, questioning. Rothen held up a wagging finger and smirked.

"Not everyone. I've seen war after war in every age for two millennia. There are some dogs that don't bite back no matter how much you kick them. It's a disgrace to the canine world, but some people are just that domesticated."

"You're just jealous Alucard's attention has been distracted." Walter almost snorted, his British upbringing the only thing keeping him from doing it. Rothen shook his head, still smirking.

"No. I expect him to be distracted. He refuses to change on that account and I've gotten over it. The point of my dislike for the girl is simply that she is still human. You know I hate humans so."

"She was changed," the butler said matter-of-factly.

"She thinks like prey. She's human. Just another easily controlled twat, just another toy for Vlad to amuse himself. It's her fault she'll never make anything of herself." Rothen imagined the girl's horror-struck face when she'd shot the wrong target just the night before.

"And what about you, what are you?"

Rothen was not ready for the subject to veer in his direction and it took a moment for him to back step and think about his reply. He frowned up at the butler.

"Me?"

"Yes." Walter was asking what he, Rothen, meant to the vampire. Or what he thought he meant to the vampire…

Rothen's smile returned and he pulled at his hair, examining the gray streaks within the jagged locks.

"Like you, I am retired. Vlad thinks I'm insane anyway."

A pause.

"Are you?"

Rothen shook his head, his hair slipping through his fingers and flying about his face when he moved.

"One doesn't go crazy from sitting in a tower for thirty-odd years, Walt. This…this right here, is all thanks to my mother. Quirky as a sack of pinned corn dolls, but sometimes that's useful. It's always the insane who know how to survive, how else could one explain how you humans managed to come out on top?"

Walter only looked at him.

"Perhaps something in your philosophy is flawed?" he asked.

Rothen laughed quietly, "I never claimed to be a philosopher. I'm not educated enough for that. I'm simply an observer with a few good ideas, that's all."

Another pause.

"And when are you going to talk to Sir Ingetra?"

"I do talk to her. She talks back sometimes. Not my fault she can't understand me."

"You speak English, but why the façade?" Why was he speaking to her in German? She didn't deserve a true conversation with him…Rothen hissed slightly and the fur on his tail puffed a little. He remembered…

"She's accountable."

"For her father?" Sir Integra, sixth generation from the first Hellsing who took down a vampire, who took down the one vampire they trusted to dearly today. Oh, if only their ancestor could see what they were doing now…

"For what he did to me and to Vlad. He deserved a far worse death than he got. One of these days I'll take it out of her hide."

Walter almost went for his glove. He looked like he was considering the idea, weighting the consequences. Vlad…Alucard would kill him for killing the werewolf, but there were worse things, right?

"I won't allow that."

There were worse things, all of which the vampire could, would do. Rothen only looked at him impassively, his gold eyes empty.

"My dear Walter…you won't be around."

But what did the werewolf know that they did not? A great many things…

* * *

Trance. He had visited this state of mind several times since his exit from the tower cell, now only a memory, though still fresh and still painful. He was older now, he could feel hip displacement only years away now and his joints were arthritic when he woke in the evenings. He doubted he'd ever play the lute again, or the old mandolin that was still rotting in the mansion's attic somewhere, among the mice and bugs. He would miss the music; not many played mandolin these days.

Once he'd considered his own terminal aging, as he did so often now that he knew his mortality, he moved to his master's. The vampire was across a great ocean, but he could still feel the thorn in his mind, the thrum of unlife in his nervous system. The vampire had changed greatly since the experiments; the old Vladimir that Rothen had known was gone. Alucard was simply a shadow of his former self, a wraith of the soul within.

The soul was still there, the heart that never pumped still alive and the mind still aware. He had seen it emerge in the middle of the day, when the house was quiet and they were curled together in the vampire's coffin with barely enough room to breathe. He'd seen it in a flash of eyes, or how something was said: the pronunciation or accent or tone or faint lilt. But there was little else left of the old Vladimir than a wistful look at the full moon or the strange impulse to bite during passion.

Oh yes, the vampire was still possessive, but there was no aggression. Perhaps it came with getting older.

He shoved the thoughts to the side and focused on the task at hand, a glance into the future with a single cast of bone runes. They clattered on the hard wood of the desk and feel silent, but Rothen did not emerge from his thoughts to explain them. He considered the markings, fingering them individually and shutting his eyes.

"Off to the west there is a great danger. Finally, a movement from a hiding enemy, but it is something easily countered. It is a diversion, but cannot be ignored. A floating castle…fortress…"

"A battleship?" Integra suggested, looking as if she didn't quite believe what she was hearing. She'd only just gotten over the shock of knowing the werewolf did, in fact, speak English, and only refused to converse with her out of familial dislike. She couldn't do a thing about her father, but she didn't try explaining that to the werewolf. He had old ideas about society and family, and he didn't seem partial to change. It was a big enough step for him to even speak to her, another when he'd offered to read her future (and though she refused to believe in fortune telling, she wasn't going to insult him). Walter was silent, but alert. He took notes.

"I don't know anything about the modern war machines. It can't be approached."

"How are we supposed to fight it then?"

Rothen blinked at her and cocked his head to the side.

"How does the eagle catch her prey?"

Integra tried to imagine how she might go about destroying any dangers to her country when the present called to her by way of a phone call. She picked up on the second ring and waited for the other line to speak, lighting a new cigar. The werewolf scrunched his nose up at the smell and took a step back. Integra almost smiled.

"I've completed my mission, my master. What they're up to is now engraved into my brain." Alucard's voice buzzed on the other line.

"Well done."

"Yesss."

"Return straight away. I expect a formal report."

"Ohh? It sounds like the Roundtable Counsel's turned up the heat."

"If only that was the whole story. It's a direct order from higher up."

"Higher up? Meaning?"

"From her majesty. She's called the counsel together."

"Ho ho! The queen!"

"You think this is a laughing matter? You're mistaken. Escape and return home immediately! Do not make her wait. Section XIII is moving as well. I have no desire to be outdone by them!"

"Yah. By the way Integra, how did you like the joy of war? Miss director…Did it set you aboil? Were you able to see the dark red flames blazing?"

"Oh shut it! Bloody fool, how would I know that? Get back here this instant, you git!"

Sir Integra hung up before Rothen could ask to speak to the vampire. She growled and stubbed out her cigar before looking up at him. He felt his hackles rise at the look.

"I don't believe in fortune tellers," she said. Rothen smiled, and then laughed. He'd heard that several times before…

"My lover giving you trouble?" he laughed, his voice utterly vicious, "Should've let me talk to him. I could get him home in a matter of hours."

"Get out of my office."

Rothen mock-bowed and turned to leave, scooping his runes into his bag as he went.

"You'll heed my warning when the time comes. You doubters always come around some time or another."

He slammed the door behind him, his tail a flamboyant swish of brown before disappearing behind the mahogany door.

Walter only shook his head and offered Integra her afternoon tea.

* * *

Their reunion wasn't the quiet affair Rothen had promised Walter. The moment the vampire stepped off the Vatican plane, Rothen was out of the car and had tackled him with all one hundred and forty pounds of force behind him. His tail was moving so fast that it was a blur and he gave a few loud barks of laughter before Alucard could bodily remove him.

The police girl looked on, a little shocked. The airplane personnel hardly noticed, as they were well paid to. When Seras Victoria looked to Walter in question, he only shrugged and moved to take her luggage. The lieutenant looked as if he was going to be sick.

_You missed me? I'm touched._

'Don't be sarcastic. I think I pulled a muscle faking my enthusiasm…'

Vladimir only chuckled and got into the car.

* * *

_Fin Chapter 18_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **

Okay, I did next to no research about the actual holiday/ceremony/ whatever it really is Samhain. To all you Wicca and Witches and Druids out there, please don't be insulted. I wasn't actually intending it anything more than a date that looked convenient. And remember that any spell you do to me comes back three fold.

To those of you who have no idea what Samhain is, go Wikipedia it. It's actually quite interesting.

Also, the economics references were supposed to be reminiscent of the first manga (was it the first, or the second?) in which Alucard explains the food chain to a young chip vampire and his girlfriend and that killing so recklessly would be bad for not just the humans, but the vampires too.

It seemed funny to me…

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**REVIEW PLEASE!**

**Morality**(Blinks) Cool. Thanks.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**Thank you too. But really…Nazi vampires aren't any fun. I know.

**Silvermane1**Yeah.


	19. Fated Doom

**Author's Notes: **Exciting thing of the week: I made my first withdrawal from my back account! What? Is no one else here excited for me? Well how about this, I also went to Big Lots and it's actually improved in the years I've been avoiding it. Except for the crowds…I can't stand the crowds. Always go on a weekday, right before closing; you can avoid people that way. Unless it's a sale day, then just don't go at all.

* * *

Chapter 19: Fated Doom

* * *

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1263 A.D.

* * *

Royal life suited him. It was as if the werewolf had always had a comfortable life, as if those years in exile from his pack were nothing at all, just an unpleasant vacation from reality. The vampire had assumed that he was nothing more than a peasant at first, possessing nothing more than a sharp tongue. After a few weeks, though, he learned that there was a certain nobility in the way his held himself, his chin straight and his shoulders in loose wariness. He wore simple clothes as often as he could and never wore shoes if the vampire didn't insist he do, and even then he rarely obeyed.

There was no way to break the werewolf. They were at a standstill if they didn't think of one another as equals. It went against everything the vampire was taught in his youth, in his long life spent gaining power. To him, everyone was a lower being. To him, he was the top of the ranks. The werewolf refused to think of it that way and as he'd soon discovered, the werewolf always got his way in the end, by one means or another.

What he lacked in tact and civility, he made up for in cleverness and a certain viciousness that a snake used to charm its prey. The court both adored him for his graceless charm and his sharp observations and thought him nothing more than a splendid jester for the vampire's amusement, depending on who one asked. He was neither a pet nor a courtier. The werewolf somehow superseded that expectation, replacing it with a self-given independence that the vampire prince never gave to any others before.

One way he got what he wanted was stealing it from those who had it.

The werewolf was both a charmer and a thief. The vampire found himself unable to deny him anything he wanted, for whatever reason. It wasn't love or even lust. His pride refused to think of it as charity, as he never gave any and the werewolf would scarce accept it under that context.

He couldn't help admiring the werewolf, his fierceness, his violence, his almost regal air.

Fascination of the creature allotted him the prices for which he asked and all he took. He, like his court, was enthralled by the monstrous being.

And like a monster, his smile drew them only closer.

"I will one day be your end, you realize. The end to all this."

A wide sweep of his arm and he smiled and settled back down in the vampire's loose arms. Vladimir was almost asleep now, sated and smiling quietly. The werewolf bared his teeth in annoyance. He did not like being ignored.

"Another prediction of your runes?" Vladimir questioned.

"One day you won't mock them so. You won't be pleased then, blame me for a fate I cannot alter."

"There is no such thing as fate," the vampire hissed, turning his head away. The werewolf would not be silent, though, and rolled with him, held his head straight and met his eyes.

"And history repeats itself because of people like you, who believe they can change things that are unchangeable. Wars will grow in size and destructive power. They will create ammunitions so large that one can blow an entire civilization away like a sand castle in the wind. I have seen it!"

"You see nothing much fantasies. Get off me and be silent, if you won't sleep."

The werewolf sighed and got out of bed, wrapping a soft robe around his thin frame. To the vampire he looked more princely than ever in that robe, all indignant pride, his ears flat in agitation and his hackles raised, eyes wary for a fight. The gold there flickered in the lightless room and his pale face was tight with real anger.

"I was sent into exile because I was fated to become a destroyer, one to bring a great empire to an end. My people did not want to die, but it wasn't they who were bound to suffer and end. It was you and yours. The vampires are great now, in droves and pockets and guilds so large that humans are lessening in number far faster than can be good for all our kinds."

"And I'm to assume you're doing this as an economic trial?"

"Economic, indeed, but genocide is rarely ever a trial."

The vampire sat up at this, lips tight in horror as realization came to him.

"You're going to kill everyone?"

"All but the breeders," the werewolf said gently, "The few that do remain will spread far and learn to respect the human population. Indeed they are weak, but they are our means of survival. If they die, we die. Your kind is careless. If I did nothing we would all die."

The vampire was ready to rush out and kill him on the spot, only reason holding him back. They were his people, his friends, his trusted ones. He couldn't allow them to die…

"Think of it as population control. Think of it as ritual survival. It must be done."

"When?"

Rothen looked down at the vampire with tender eyes, went so far as to reach out and touch the vampire's shoulder. Vladimir flinched.

"Samhain, all souls eve, seems appropriate by all calendars. The sacrifice will be good for us all in the end."

Oh gods…the Samhain festival that was to be held just the next evening. The vampire felt a lump form in his throat.

"Worry not. Their pain should be brief. You will not be present to see it."

"You'll not stop me."

"Actually, I already have. There was a tonic in your last meal. The child was dying by poison as you drank. It shan't kill you, but you will not wake for some time after the holidays."

"Murderer…"

Rothen only shrugged and pulled the robe tighter around himself, walked silently toward the door. The vampire suddenly felt the draught working in his cold blood, making his eyes heavy with sleep. He spat at the werewolf, but missed by several feet.

"You'll destroy everything for a prophecy!" he screamed, his wretched voice echoing around the room.

"Of course not," the werewolf bit out softly, cutting, "For economics."

* * *

The perversion of Samhain was beautiful, the walking dead celebrating death. It was not the same as the witches believed and worshipped. They were the corpses they defended their villages against, as best they could. They ransacked all the blood they could devour and stole children to raise as slaves and playthings. Then they returned to the Prince's palace as the largest gathering of all the living dead in the century.

And Rothen baited them like lambs to the chopping block. He mingled splendidly, traded greetings and other pleasantries easily among the doomed. He actually enjoyed it, the thought that they would never see another night. He was gilded with the nicest clothes he possessed, a thick cape pulling behind him as he moved and his hair woven with symbolic herbs of warding and protection.

At Midnight he called the attention of all present, standing by the throne to give his address. The candles wavered as if excited. Silence reigned. He opened his mouth.

"May the damned be damned and remain in their true hell forever," he said softly. The group looked to one another, confused.

The doors to the halls opened and the wolves entered, the humans and the vampire hunters. They slaughtered them swiftly, Rothen among them, ripping the vampires apart as easily as he cut paper.

They were all dead before the quarter hour. The humans and hunters and wolves retreated with their payments and Rothen was all that remained, the only thing breathing in the hall.

There were six that had not come, and then Vladimir who still slept in the hidden wing for his own protection.

When Vladimir awoke, all he found was a desert of vampire dust in his hall and his mate missing. Rothen had left him.

Vladimir kneeled in the ashes of his brethren and wept.

* * *

_Fin chapter 19_

_Please review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Correction, what I had posted here last chapter was supposed to be in this chapter. This is what I get for mindlessly cutting and pasting at one in the morning…

Okay, I did next to no research about the actual holiday/ceremony/ whatever it really is Samhain. To all you Wicca and Witches and Druids out there, please don't be insulted. I wasn't actually intending it anything more than a date that looked convenient. And remember that any spell you do to me comes back three fold.

To those of you who have no idea what Samhain is, go Wikipedia it. It's actually quite interesting.

Also, the economics references were supposed to be reminiscent of the first manga (was it the first, or the second?) in which Alucard explains the food chain to a young chip vampire and his girlfriend and that killing so recklessly would be bad for not just the humans, but the vampires too.

It seemed funny to me…

But then, I thought _Silence of the Lambs_ was friggin' hilarious.

Among other things, I was flipping through _Time Magazine_ at work (instead of, you know, working) and I found this great quote. Those of you who read Time Magazine will already know this one, and those of you who don't either think I'm Liberal slime or are just illiterate (what the hell are you doing here?).

"A church in Memphis has erected a five-story statue of Liberty, but instead of holding her torch, she's got a crucifix. That doesn't make any sense, but if a five-story vampire comes at these people, they are so covered."

-Bill Maher, July 17, 2006 issue of _Time Magazine_.

Besides the grammatical errors and the political defilement this church is committing, the sheer entertainment value was enough to make even me laugh. And it fits so perfectly in this fiction, too…

Enough from me, over and out.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Red-on-Black: **Always happy writing with lovely reviewers like you, dahling. (smiles) I was actually a bit iffy about that little bit of dialogue…about all dialogue actually, so I'm pleased to know it wasn't a flop like I'd expected. And yes, Rothen know much more than the others, he is a fortune teller, after all. He knows so much he even knows the ending of this story…ha ha.

**Morality**Rothen plays the lute in this chapter? Where? Did I have another brain flop? And yeah, I know what you're talking about with dead ends. I'm sort of waiting until the end of the series, but who knows what that'll be? I can work it to the end of that, if I knew what it was, but whatever, I'll figure it out someday. In the mean time, I'm going to edit what I have. Oh! Did you know that the author, the actual Manga-ka of the Hellsing anime and manga is coming to Otukon in Baltimore? I'm psyched! I worship his art, it's fantastic.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper** Maybe I have faced them…(snaps teeth). (Cackle)

**Phorcys**Yours is the exact review I've wanted to get since I first joined this site. I am so flattered you think so highly of my writing. I actually don't much like Seras, mostly because of the exact reason a lot of other writers have their own characters molest her (she has bigger boobs than I do and she's blonde). (Laughs). I'm glad that you liked my idea about the changing timeline, too. I get bored with writing in a straight line (doesn't everyone?), so I decided to add some back story (because I love backgrounds, it's a hobby) without it wasting a lot of time.

It actually started out a bit of a mistake, the alterations in the timeline, I had a gigantic plothole with Rothen being Alucard's lover and a lot of their history just wasn't coming out like I wanted, so I decided to revise it and make it into an entirely separate, and yet not separate, chapter. It also shows how everything is connected in the story, which covers my history itch.

Anyway, I'm rambling and probably boring you to death, so I thank you for the great review and I hope you liked this chapter as much as you liked the rest of the story.

_Subliminal message: Go out with me, now!_


	20. Summit

**Author's Notes: **Don't write while listening to Alanis Morissette. You'll want to castrate all your main male characters…Christmas music and Pink Floyd is fine, though.

* * *

Chapter 20: Summit

* * *

American and European Depression  
Europe to England  
Year 1936 A.D.

* * *

Moon phases came and went and seemed to be the only way Rothen could tell the time and how much of it had passed. War slowly preceded war, some the werewolf fought in and others he ignored. He searched the world over for his master, desperate to follow him, but could never catch his scent. The thorn was active, but only enough to hum the vampire's life force through his body, never to communicate. Rothen remembered a prediction he had read from the runes some years back, and his master's lack of reaction.

"One day, some day, you'll go where I can't find you," Rothen had said softly, disappointed with the news. His toes curled into the bear fur carpet and his ears had sagged. He had just taken a liking to the vampire, just gotten used to his strange nature, his ironic humor.

Vladimir didn't seem one bit bothered, even scoffed. Rothen had been surprised the vampire was brave enough or foolish enough, to laugh at the future.

"With a nose like yours, I _would_ be at a loss if you couldn't find me," Vladimir snorted and made a grand gesture with his hand, "You found me halfway across Europe, you could probably find me further if you tried."

If he tried.

Rothen felt his throat close up, his eyes well with desperation. He had been trying for months, years even, until his very bones ached with longing and exhaustion.

He needed a break. He couldn't go back to Germany, though, another bloody war was starting there…his people had betrayed their own ideals and sided with the real monsters, with humans, something they wouldn't have done half a century ago. The elders had to be dead to allow this to happen, to allow their traditions die.

He had met several werewolves, both from his clan and not. They were all quite young, most of them still pups. He hadn't seen an elder in years.

Maybe they _were_ dead.

He avoided Germany and the new party they tried to stretch out over Europe like a pig skin in the sun. He took his rest in England, the very land he loathed.

The boat ride with tolerable, quite a bit shorter than his last travel over some fifty years ago, and he hopped from train to train until he reached the very northern countryside, just below Scotland. The tiny town he settled in was eight kilometers from the shack he occupied, and though the people who lived there gossiped about him and his sudden arrival, they left him alone. He was pleased enough with that. It left him time to think and gather information, rumors mostly, of the war and whatever supernatural events occurred within the British borders.

Some of the rumors were of a strange, secretive organization that claimed to be fighting evil, but not the 'Axis' world powers. These evils were of a more spiritual level.

Rothen felt like he had finally closed in on his master, if just that little bit. He would have to go to London, though. The Germans had just begun to bomb the city, thousands of children were spilling into the countryside, and he was loath to go where he had little protection. He could fend off knives and swords and dive away from bullets, but bombs didn't discriminate and didn't go after anyone, they just blew up and took whatever was nearby with them.

Even Rothen could be destroyed by the fire of a bomb.

He closed down his shack and caught the train to London, his few possessions tucked into the leather knapsack he had been carrying around since he stole it off that Union solder in the Americas.

A set of clothes for when he needed to clean the ones he wore were stuffed into the bag, and his runes were tucked into the overcoat he always wore, even in summer. Other trinkets were carefully kept in the folds of his clothes in the bag, the cloth protecting them from harm. He had stolen a few things from the castle before he'd left, some to sell for when he needed money and some to give to the Vampire when he saw him again. Vladimir had loved a particular book and always kept it by the bedstead for reading if he couldn't sleep. He had never told Rothen what the book was and the werewolf was determined to ask him sometime. A small collection of rings and a smooth pendant of cool bloodstone on its tarnished gold chain were kept in a side pocket of the bag, and a couple of Rothen's old sketchbooks were kept with his clothes.

Any money he had he kept in his pockets, nearest to his skin, he wasn't fool enough to leave his bag, but one could never be sure. He was always wary of pickpockets

He slept most of the train ride, since watching what passed out the window made him ill. It still seemed strange to be moving so fast and sit still at the same time, though he had watched the birth of the automobile, of trains and effective ships. The world was revolving smoother and faster every year and he had a hard time keeping up. He did his best, but his mind was still set back in the Middle Ages, lost within the folds of the Renaissance, the beginning of the Enlightened times.

London was dead; gray and lifeless compared to when he had last seen it in 1888. There were no horses in the street, and he was glad that he didn't have to watch where he was stepping. He was distracted by the strange smells of coal and gasoline and death that permeated the air. Everything was so different. The buildings were taller and no longer build of brick and wood. Steel and iron were popular now. Some of them were desecrated, burnt black and crumpled from the bombs and fires. People loitered in the streets, displaced from the bombs, their eyes empty.

Vladimir was existing in this? He was the type of person who went to cities to revel in the life, not this oppressive air. Rothen felt his chest clench, the thorn twitch slightly.

He was in the correct place at the correct time. He dared not hope.

He rented a small apartment near the historic part of town and once visited their old home. The whole corner was gone, blackened pillars of burnt wood and ash. He was depressed by the discovery, at a chapter of his life having been wiped out like that, but he did not linger to retrace his old steps. He was busy looking for any more clues like the ones that had led him here.

And he found them over the course of several terrifying weeks in London's darker districts. He eventually ended up on at the front gate of a huge house just outside the city, its grounds lush and green in the summer heat. The guard at the gates kept ordering him to leave, threatening him with his rifle and telling him that he was trespassing.

"Who lives here?" Rothen asked, unruffled by the threats. He doubted the man could hurt him, could even aim straight the way he was holding the gun.

"I told you to bugger off."

"Hellsing? This is Hellsing Manor?" Rothen questioned, his voice demanding an answer. The guard paused to gulp and told him to leave again, a little more hurried this time.

This was the place.

Thank the gods. This was his last stop before he gave up.

He moved into the guard's space, wrenched the gun from the human's grip and smashed it over his head. The man crumpled and Rothen relieved him of his keys to unlock the gate. There were more humans coming to either shoot him or chase him off. Rothen didn't give them the chance, shoving his way through them, breaking arms, cracking skulls and sending men off limping as he moved. He didn't slow down once he was free, crashing through the thick wooden door and into the foyer.

"VLADIMIR!" he roared, his voice echoing through the luxurious halls. Maids dropped their piles of towels and trays of food and the butler shrank from his post when Rothen turned on him.

Rothen grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him to his feet, snarling into his face.

"Where is Hellsing," he demanded. The man blubbered his reply and Rothen tossed him away as easily as one would a ball of paper.

"Why are you tormenting my butler?" came a soft, yet powerful voice. Rothen's ears perked at the sound of it, weathered by age but still recognizable. The woman at the foot of the stairs was still noble, but her beauty had faded, her hair gone from gold to gray and wrapped into a tight braid. Her eyes were a little hazy behind her spectacles. Rothen growled at her and her hand on the banister tightened minutely.

"You remember me?" he hissed and she nodded. No, she hadn't forgotten him at all. She probably still had nightmares about the one time they'd met, the one time he'd tried and almost killed her.

"He won't go with you," she said.

"Still trapping him with his fancy? He isn't one to love women past their prime," he snapped back.

"I do not trap him now. He is a part of this organization by choice," she explained. She descended the last of the stairs and motioned to a small door on the side of the hallway. "You may ask him yourself if you so choose."

Rothen hesitated. This seemed too easy after so many hard years. She could be leading him into a trap and he didn't for a moment doubt that she would. She opened the door first and entered. She did not beckon to him, but he followed.

The stairwell was dark and hallway below was lit only by smoky candles hung from the walls. They passed door after door, all medieval in style, until the last one at the very end of the hall stood before them. She stood to the side and knocked on the door.

"Vladimir?" she called through the door. Rothen could hear a slight scuffling within and his hackles rose. What if this was a trap? His nostrils flared and caught the scent of grave dirt, but the only human around was the woman.

The door unbolted and creaked open slightly. A silhouette stood there, red eyes peering out at them, but the rest of him was indiscernible from the darkness within.

"Ingrid…What do you want?" came the ravaged voice, deep and dark and enough to send Rothen's heart into convulsions. It rose in his throat and he gaped stupidly as he fished desperately for words.

No one could fake a voice like that. It wasn't a trap.

"He's found you," she said. Vladimir's eyes focused on Rothen and the werewolf could barely hold himself back. The thorn in his mind moved, testing to see if it really was him and he knew that Vladimir was tasting his scent.

_Rothen?_

Rothen shoved the door open and threw himself into Vladimir's arms, curling his arms around the vampire's neck and clinging desperately to him, pressing his nose into the ragged black hair and taking huge breaths. It was a relief to soak in the vampire's scent and press against the familiar body, but something was holding the vampire back. Rothen clung tighter, refusing to let him go now that he had found him, at last he had found him.

"Excuse us, Ingrid," Vladimir's voice sounded over his head and the door was shut and locked again.

"I told you your runes were wrong," the vampire said, laughing softly, his voice tired. Rothen couldn't figure out why.

His heart nearly stopped at the thought of the prediction.

"No…the runes are never wrong…" he whispered, "This just wasn't the time…"

For once Vladimir didn't have a comeback, didn't bad talk his fortune telling. He only lowered his face into Rothen's soft hair, kissing one perked ear.

"Perhaps…"

* * *

"Explain this to me, Vlad, why are you working for these people?"

Vladimir was sitting by the fireplace, warming his outstretched hands. He had just come back from a 'mission', eyes rimmed black with exhaustion and his hair even more snarled than before. Rothen stood beside the chair he had sunk into and was picking the knots out of that dark hair with his sharp fingernails.

"You recall Samhain?" Vladimir replied, answering a question with a question in the exact way that would've annoyed Rothen years ago. Now, though, Rothen was simply happy the vampire was there to annoy him.

"Ja. I remember." How could he have forgotten the bloodletting he and a few others had done that night? It was long ago, but the memory, the smell of it was still bright and clear and fresh to him. The years after, though, were hazy. He had no need to remember those times in personal exile anyway…

They were depressing.

"You remember the economics?" Vladimir asked. Rothen continued to pick the tangles out of his hair in silence for a moment, considering where this conversation might be going. Reason and clear thinking weren't exactly Vladimir's strong suits, after all.

For all he knew, the vampire could still blame him for his empire's downfall…After all, his hand was the one that shoved it into its tormented end.

"Jawhol."

"That's why I'm doing this. Economics…"

"You lost me," Rothen said, confused. How did working for humans have anything to do with economics?

"Ingrid's father was one of the most successful vampire hunters in Europe in America before he died and Ingrid took over, you know this?"

"Ja, but your point?"

"He just wanted to hunt then, save a few stupid humans who would've ended up with unhappy lives anyway. But Ingrid is intelligent, she considered a reason for keeping me alive. Instead of just killing me, as her father wished, she thought I could be of some use to the family business, because, empire or not, I'm still a No Life King."

"I think I hear a 'but' coming on…"

"Actually no," Vladimir hissed, "Vampires have been reproducing at an alarming rate since late last century. We've been keeping an eye on their activities. She's interested in keeping more of her own kind alive, less vampire's dead, as the ideal predator/prey scenario should go in atypical biology."

"You feel the same way?"

"Yes, I do, actually. It makes perfect sense."

Rothen let the vampire's hair slip out of his fingers and glowered at him.

"It didn't when I said so."

"I was stupid."

Rothen's eyebrow rose and he moved around to look straight into Vladimir's face. He looked older, a lot more wary of the world around him. His eyes didn't quite trust Rothen anymore…

It was a relief. After years of trying to tell the vampire, he was finally listening. Sometimes it just took a little life experience for others to believe you.

"You were right, your runes were right, and I didn't listen," Vladimir said through a soft smile, "Forgive a foolish vampire?"

Rothen's mouth quirked in a similar smile, his eyes glittering with excitement. He slithered into Vladimir's arms and curled protectively around him, his head lowered in the vampire's tangled hair.

"Took you long enough."

"So you'll stay?"

"Not like I have any other plans…"

* * *

_Fin chapter 20_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **I wrote the first half of this at the beach. When I got home to edit it, I decided I hated it and ignored it until I needed a filler in the timeline. Then I reread it and decided it was okay enough put online. I finished the other half of it today.

* * *

**To My Readers:**

**Zoe: **While seeming 'out of character', I (ok, Rothen) had actually mentioned something about a 'prophecy' in chapter 14. Because of this prophecy, Rothen had no choice but to obey it, however out of character it is. It's his belief that fortune telling is always correct, even though it doesn't always seem the case. We'll see. (smiles)

**Morality**Edmame-What? What did you say?

**Red-on-Black:** I'm simply too amazing to understand. I scare myself sometimes…Just kidding. I was referencing the first book, Alucard's little speech about humans going extinct and vampires going on rampages, vice versa and the rest.

I'm glad you're enjoying the story, that's what's it's there for, after all. I hope you come back and find some other good ones (and of course, continue reading and reviewing mine).

Actually, about the Historical references…I used Wikipedia and since that whole incident a few months ago I'm a bit iffy about using the supply there (but what choice have I? I hate looking stuff up physically). The stuff I use is very generalized and thus easily manipulated to my own devices, so I wouldn't consider it actually educational, though I'm glad someone's gained some knowledge from this. More than I can say. (laughs) Anyway, all other references come from, naturally, the Hellsing manga (not the anime, simply because of all the friggin' plotholes).

For the final comment: (bows) Thank you and I shall to very best of my ability.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**What is this 'research' people keep talking about? So I looked stuff up on cyberspace, I've got way too much time on my hands. I find looking stuff up for my fics entertaining. I'm an only child, so I have strange hobbies (I suppose), so maybe I unwittingly did something incredibly cool rather than incredibly weird…

And I just went off on a tangent there…sorry about that. Are you confused yet? (laughs)

Arigato.


	21. Schrödinger

**Author's Notes: **Just got back from Otukon. Since I was inspired by all the Hellsing stuff going on I figured, why not edit? I've taken a long enough break and I am back, baby! That and I need a reason to avoid homework.

* * *

Chapter 21: Schrödinger

* * *

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX

* * *

Vladimir was briefing Integra about his mission, simultaneously gloating over his success. Rothen's attention wavered, tired from the trip to and from the airport in London and the noise, noise, noise of the world when their car drove by. Walter was pretending not to be listening as he lit Integra's fresh cigar, but Rothen knew he was at full attention. Rothen's nose crinkled at the smell of the cigar, the scent of the woman's father, as it swamped the air.

The circular hell of the tower room flashed before his eyes, his own screaming echoing in his ears as he scrabbled at the walls in an attempt to escape, his claws broken past his fingertips, his hands bleeding. He had screamed so long there, his voice great and terrible and horrified in the hollow he was confined in while he felt the resonating torture his master was going through, who was unable to keep it from their link. He remembered the pain, the insurmountable pain they had both felt, wailing and cursing and sobbing as he curled around himself, trying to stop the phantom pains.

A pinch from Alucard brought him back to reality, the act so discreet even he hadn't seen him move back again. Rothen's vision was blurry, but his face was dry. The vampire never missed a beat, kept right on talking.

_Are you all right?_

/I remember too much of that life and not enough of this one. Dementia has been unkind to my family./

_You're thinking clearly now?_

/Yes./

In the middle of Alucard's speech, Rothen turned and went out into the hall, silent as the wind. There was no need to be there. He already knew.

He knew everything.

He knew nothing.

* * *

They were in bed again, as they usually were if they weren't on duty. It was sometime close to noon, but Rothen couldn't sleep. He was awake and therefore keeping the vampire awake. As much as Alucard tried, there was just too much static in the werewolf's mind to let him rest assured nothing was wrong. Rothen wasn't thinking, or he wasn't thinking clearly, but it didn't sit well with Alucard.

When Rothen was younger, centuries younger, he used to think all the time. He always had something on his mind, be it a repeating phrase or a story or a song or simply an emotion. This nothingness had never existed with Rothen before the tower, before he'd aged. He was wary of the insanity that ran in Rothen's bloodline, of the violent and now deceased relatives of his pack, the ones that had killed themselves for the Nazis back in the 1940's and earlier.

"Tell me about Anderson," came Rothen's thick voice, his accent strong in the dark as he got out of bed and paced the length of the room, "He entertains you?"

"Indeed. He's a Regenerator."

"They don't exist, farie tales."

"The Vatican insists on keeping his existence a secret. They're doing a fair job, considering his bloodlust."

"Catholic?"

"Yes, a devout one too."

"You always love a paradox," Rothen mused. Vladimir drew him toward the bed and pulled him down among the sheets. The werewolf purred when Vladimir mussed his hair and stroked his ears, a tail lazily wagged and the long feathery hair on it sailed lightly in the still air.

"Yes."

* * *

They stalked toward the throne room, Rothen gawking at the scenery as they walked past, at the expensive vases and paintings a hundred years and older, at the fine carpets and tapestries, looking as if it was their first day in existence and not their millionth. It was like the palace in Romania before it had burned, before he himself had destroyed it. It was lavish in its finery and still held the musty chill of a proper castle. He missed Romania in a vague, existential way.

The lieutenant and the pet were walking with him, watching him with varying levels of wariness. It was to be expected, as he wasn't exactly been on friendly terms with either. They trailed behind Alucard a little closer than Rothen dared. Rothen had a place to fill at the vampire's side and he respected him as if he were still the prince of a thousand vampires, he kept three steps behind him. No guards delayed them, they were expected.

Alucard threw the door open and slid in gracefully, the Knights of the Round Table already assembled. Rothen wondered why they were knights, since none of them were trim, handsome or wearing armor. His vision of knights still sprung from history. They seemed wealthy, to be sure, which was perhaps why they were knighted in the first place, and not for noble deeds.

He suddenly found a liking for the single Dane in the room, perched on her own large, ornate chair, smoking her thin cigar. She was truly the bravest of them there, raised a warrior by a warrior father and a warrior butler. He knew Walter from before the tower, knew his ability to fight and respected him as a fellow in arms.

Integra had just eared a little bit of respect, simply by sitting…One couldn't help being impressed by that.

The queen had urged Alucard closer, Rothen and Seras and the lieutenant watching quietly behind Integra's chair as the vampire removed his glasses and stepped forward, kneeling before the queen and passively letting her old, withered hands search his face for any change at all. There was none, Rothen knew, and she marveled at it in her own weary way, as the elderly tended to do.

Then her voice grew in command and ordered Alucard to report everything. Rothen's attention was again lost, his ears perked to another sound. It was moving fast, faster than most creatures could move. It was moving toward them.

And then it was there and its scent assaulted Rothen's sensitive nose. The clean dog smell of a young pup and the crisp starch of a uniform.

"Tubalcain's blood showed me the vay here," said the boy-wolf, "Really…I guess he vas good for something…"

Rothen gaped, recognizing the boy's face, the structure of his head and straight nose, the color of his fur. The boy's eyes were on him, studied him for just a split second, then turned away. The humans didn't even notice, but he did, Alucard did, even Seras had, but hadn't recognized it.

The others were in an uproar, the knights sweating in fear as the guards argued that security was flawless. There was no such thing as flawless…

"I'm everyvhere and novhere. I have a message from heir general."

The boy turned to Seras, who was still trying to decide what she'd seen was real or imagined. He murmured a quiet 'Guten tag' that made her glower and flush.

Rothen scoffed…pups today.

The boy clicked the message on, the signal low, but eventually working. A familiar human (human?) face emerged on the tiny screen, all delirious smiles. The sight of him made Rothen think of both Hitler and Napoleon and the idea made his skin crawl. He'd disliked both of them.

Alucard just smiled into the screen. "Hi there, Major."

"It's been a long time, Alucard. Being able to see you against the pinnacle of gladness."

Introductions done, the man on the screen looked slightly aside, at Integra, who was still smoking calmly, glaring at the screen behind her shiny glasses.

"So you're the enemy leader. Oh, you're the director of Hellsing. Sir Integra Hellsing, ja? The ist the first time ve've met."

"What's your goal?" Integra growled, "What leads you to engage in this daft behavior? Answer me!"

The general only smiled, "Goal? Fraulein, lovely fraulien. That ist one foolish question. If you must go that far, fraulein, ve do not haff any goal."

One of the knight got to his feet and shouted 'hogwash' and demanded to know if they really attacked for no reason.

"Silence!" the general shouted, effectively shutting the man up. The knight sank back into his chair and the general continued, "I am not speaking vith you. I am speaking vith this fraulein. It hast been so long since I spoke vith a young girl. Do not interfere vith me, boy!"

The general turned back to Integra, who was chewing angrily on her cigar but still showed no more expression.

"Settle on no means to obtaining your goals. I'm told it's a Machiavellian Rudiment but I don't really know such things. Do you see, fraulein? If you are a commander vith the slightest power of retaliation, you should know this. There ist no doubt that in this vorld, there exist groups who are determined to settle on no goals in obtaining their means. In other vords…After all is said und done, groups like us…" he snapped his fingers and in the background a swarm of vampire soldiers savagely tore apart a group of human civilians. There was to be nothing left to rise even as ghouls.

Rothen's throat tightened. This is what he had been fighting before the massacre at Samhain. This is why he'd murdered so many…they were going to ruin everything he'd done. He turned to the younger werewolf, feeling betrayed. The boy didn't even register him, considered him an elder who was nothing more than crazy.

The representative of the Vatican, a man named Maxwell snarled, "You are all insane."

The general only hummed, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

"You speak of madness to me? Vatican section XIII chief?"

"Yes, I do. Not one of you is sound in the mind."

"Thankfully it's your God who guarantees my madness, you see. Very vell, I ask you this. Who do you suppose in this vorld guarantees the sanity of your God?"

Even Seras cringed at that. Maxwell looked as if he would tear the machine apart with his bare hands.

"Do you understand who the hell you're talking to?" the general shouted, "Perhaps it vould help if I vas vearing a black SS uniform? Ve are the Schutzstaffel of the Third Reich! Just how many people do you imagine ve haff killed? The Death's Head Division, said to operate as if it breathed combat and wiolence themselves? Ve're insane? You say this now? You're about a half century too late!"

The general took a breath and kept talking. Everyone in the room was tense, excepting that god-be-damned boy.

"Very vell! So be it! Try und stop me then, you self-styled standards of normality! But unfortunately for you, my enemy ist not you und yours. Keep your vords to yourself for a bit, section XIII. My enemy ist Great Britain! The order of Protestant Knights. Nein! It's the man who looks so joyful standing there."

They all looked to Alucard, who was laughing so hard Rothen thought he might cough up a hairball or choke or something equally uninspired.

"Fine, fine, I'll destroy you any number of times." Alucard snorted, "You really are a vengeful brood! A superb war declaration."

"Ve'll overturn unsatisfactory results any number of times. Of course, ve are the most vengeful type there ist."

Alucard drew his gun, the Jackal and shoved it into the boy's mouth. Only Rothen felt the urge to stop him. Before he could move from the spot, though, before he could tense his muscles, Integra had given the order and the wolf-boy's head was gone in a huge explosion that made Rothen's ears ring.

"Shooting the messenger. Dear me, such violent outbursts."

"Messenger? Don't make me laugh," Integra snapped, "Declaration of war? Oh, please. You are nothing more than a terrorist group. Seras, fire!"

The screen exploded with the impact of a shell from the pet's rifle.

When Rothen looked around, the boy was gone.

"Sir Hellsing, Alucard," the queen's quiet voice said, interrupting Rothen's thoughts, "This is an order. Bring them all down."

They bowed and left.

* * *

When they were in the car, Walter behind the wheel and Seras in the passenger seat up front, Rothen sat close to Alucard, still a little shaken. His tail was tucked against his legs and his eyes flickered to the shadows and watched them for strange movement. Alucard's hand found his and squeezed it gently.

_You knew this boy?_

/He's my kind, my species, my race of Wer./

_I thought they were all dead, killed in the War._

/As did I. I've never seen one that young since then. He can't be more than a score years old…He's mature, but only just…/

_Mated?_ the vampire asked, curious for any leverage he might have against the boy and whoever he was working for.

/I didn't smell it. He was bonded to someone or something as I am to you, but unmated. It's…odd./

The vampire sat back, surprised that the werewolf hadn't known, hadn't sensed this before.

/I know everything and yet I know nothing. I am merely the muse of my runes, a passage for their words, not the other way around./

_The runes knew, but you never saw it?_

/Runes may have their secrets…any outlet of the goddess will./

_Does he have a goddess, this boy?_

/He is without religion. He is without direction but his own demise…My kind will die out, just later than I expected./

The vampire just sighed. Rothen curled his legs around his form on the seat and laid his head on the vampire's shoulder, calm in the presence of a worthy defender. There was nothing more to be done…they just had to wait now…

* * *

_Fin chapter 21_

_Please Review

* * *

_

**Author's Notes: **Fear the Spoon.

* * *

**To My Readers: **

**Red-on-Black: **Yes, Vlad apologized. But think about it. He was very, very in the wrong. I'm glad I didn't take it a step further and had Rothen say something like 'I told you so'.

Actually, I do that a lot in real life.

**Phorcys: **Well, he wasn't immediately kept in the tower, not originally, simply because there was no reason to attempt to hurt the Hellsing family while Vladimir worked for them. Later on, events will proceed and we'll get a better look at his entrapment at last.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**Wikipedia isn't considered a reliable source for information according to the policies of my college.

I'm geeky and have no life. It's how I keep myself entertained.


	22. Helena

**Author's Notes: **I like Moby. He makes me want to dance, paint or do something creative. He helps me with my homework. He makes meditation a little more worthwhile.

Fanfiction is being evil and not letting me do the little underline things... please bear with me.( _**NS**_) will equal a 'new scene', or change of scene. Thank you all for your patience. And SOMEONE go tell fanfiction to fix it!

**Chapter 22**: Helena

Dark Ages  
Romania  
Year 1263 A.D. 

She had escaped the great massacre of Samhain simply by failing to appear. She had chosen to remain in her fortress of a house and avoid the loud bloodletting that was a vampire party, as she had for all the others since her young birth into the nightmarish family. She was a child of the originals, a creation chosen first out of the pleasure of torture, then kept for her strength. She had killed her master and taken his place in his house, and killed nothing else.

The servants she kept were there solely for lending lifeblood, switched about on a weekly basis to keep them healthy and active. They were dedicated to her because they had nowhere else to go, orphans and cast-off from society. She treated them well and if one wanted to leave, she would let them. She was an uncruel mistress.

Perhaps that was why he had gone to her. Perhaps he had needed a taste of the truly kind to balance the scars of his heartless soul, his hurting body. He could feel his master's torment even here, hundreds of miles away, the farthest he could run in a fortnight of blind terror. He fled to the haven she offered and allowed her to protect him whenever a threat approached.

Even now he was hiding, locked away in his bare room, curled on his bed as he watched the clouds pass over the almost full moon, yellow like wheat. His fingers curled tighter around the blanket he had pulled over his head when he heard a bat fly screaming by and pass into the night, waiting for a thousand more to follow seconds later. None appeared, but he couldn't relax. His sharp eyes turned to the door when she appeared, calm and quiet and a soothing force in the face of his madness.

"You are frightened of him," she said, her voice deceptively high from her childish throat. She moved silently toward him and sat down beside him on the bed. He was proud that he only barely flinched. He had longed to throw himself across the room or out the window to get away from the threat her vampirism posed.

"He doesn't understand my motives. His lack of understanding hurts him, makes him angry. He's human like that," Rothen whispered back from under the blanket.

"He is anything but human. I doubt he ever really was."

Rothen fixed one gold eye on her, the coarse wool having fallen over the other. He squinted at her, the moonlight shining off of her white skin, whiter than even Vladimir's. She was from the North. How far north, he couldn't say, but much farther than he had ever been before. She spoke German well enough, with barely an accent to her voice.

"You knew him before…"

A question, a demand.

She smiled, her blue eyes soft, gentle, all too knowing. She understood his lust for whatever knowledge she contained, she knew his tortured desire to comprehend his master's past, and thus his present and his future.

He wanted a hold on the vampire as the vampire had a hold on him.

"I know only rumors, but there is always some small fact in rumor. Shall I tell you?"

Rothen's ears perked, the blanket over them shifting to accommodate them. He nodded slightly, barely a nod at all, but more of a tucking in of his chin.

"And what might I get in return?"

"Coyness does not flatter you, Helena," he growled, expression flat. She smiled and nodded and pushed her hair off of her shoulder. She had been generous enough to let him stay with her and hadn't asked anything in return. Why would she start now?

"Some say he was of the Father's brood, almost directly, a first descendant of the great god himself. It's what they say, that he was always a vampire, but indeed he was not. His father was a nobleman, barely more than gentry in Romania, who was killed oh…so many years ago. Perhaps three hundred years ago, perhaps more, and perhaps less, I don't know precisely. He took over the family headship for his father and I suppose that's when the countryside started to fall into ruin.

"They claimed his hand was cursed and that everything he touched would be destroyed. It was nothing more than peasant superstition, but when word of his failing rule spread, it drew the forefathers in droves. They drained his lands, murdered his family and took him as a plaything, a human pet. They would use him as entertainment and kill him when they were bored, but he found a way to kill his master and drank his blood."

Rothen's breath caught in his throat when he thought of that, of his master, a young human boy, scooping handfuls of black vampire blood from the stone floors. He imagined the pain of the change, the destruction of humanity, lost willingly.

Helena's gentle eyes smiled at him and she continued.

"At first, he was nothing. Nomadic in his hunting, lacking territory or noble claims. I suppose that freedom was something he enjoyed, for he relished in his many more years than he could have. He gained strength, he killed, he studied dark magics and used them and eventually killed his way to the top. You know him only as what he was, and very little of his mind. I'm afraid the rumors haven't helped you."

"He'll come for me. He'll come and kill me," Rothen said softly, his voice trembling with fear.

"Yes, he'll come for you."

She patted his knee, rose and left.

Another bat flew, screaming, past the window, and fled into the night.

**_NS_**

He was there, naked, cold and shivering on the stone floor, the bitter shackles that held him bit into his ankles and wrists. The cold was sucking him in as he bled out, all his internal heat, slick across the floor of the echoing chamber. His breath was swift, desperate, perhaps his last. He knew he was crying, his face was smeared and crusted with the salt of it, salt that the monster licked away whenever she got the chance, just to rub it in.

Vampires didn't cry. She only laughed at him and he had never been so ashamed of his humanity. He begged, he pleaded for her to end his life, end his suffering, but was, the vicious beast, thrilled in his torture. She had done everything to him, everything short of absolute violation, and he was sure she was saving it for the last moment just to humiliate him.

She was there now, watching him bleed and cry and breathe, lapping blood off of her fingers as she reached into his opened belly to milk more out of him. She purred with satisfaction at his whimpers and spoke to herself, to him, in her perfect, terrifying voice.

"A shame you aren't a girl," she whispered into his ear as she pulled out his long organs and twisted them in his fingers. He cried out and buckled against her hold, but he couldn't break free. He closed his eyes and begged for death again. She only smiled and bit his ear.

"I could bathe in your blood and remain young and beautiful forever. Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"You're a monster," he hissed. She laughed and pulled him even more inside out. His eyes rolled back into his head with pain and disgust and he fell limp against the chains, too weak now to even shutter and curse.

"Then you know nothing of beauty, stupid boy."

She left him to her attendants, the servants quickly putting him back together and healing him with whatever obscure magic they possessed, their eyes avoiding contact with his, their mouths silent when he searched for a kind word. They knew his pain, didn't they? How couldn't they?

But they too were dead, weren't they? They felt no pain; they knew no shame or negativity. They knew nothing but the orders of their masters.

He fell into a fitful sleep in the dry pool of his own blood, beyond fear of its superstitious 'power'. He woke and thought desperately of escape and of death in equal turn, but his thoughts were interrupted when one of the servants unlocked his chains and led him through the lavish halls to the monsters bedchamber. He shuttered, knowing she hadn't yet taken his last noble standing and that should would now if he didn't do something about it.

It was all that allowed him to stand there and think of defiance. Without the holiness of virginity, he was nothing more than one of the servants, one of the ghouls, and his heart refused to allow it. His eyes searched for a weapon of any kind, but he couldn't grab anything before she entered, her dark red gown flowing gracefully around her pale, thin frame. He was much taller than she and yet he cowered in her presence, trying to appear as small as possible to escape her sharp eye like the dog she compared him to.

She shoved him back on the bed and followed after him even as he tried to crawl away, screaming as he grabbed for anything to fight her off. He caught hold of a candelabrum and swung it into her face, searing the perfect skin there. She shrieked and jumped away as he got to his feet, smashing a mirror and holding out a long shard, thrusting in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion even as it cut into the flesh of his palm. It was slick with blood, but he kept his hold, determined to escape or die trying.

She was predatory in her advance, not at all wary of the mirror in his hand, but slowly gliding toward him all the same. She had him backed up against the wall when the mirror slipped in his grasp, cutting his hand open so that the blood flowed freely there. Her eyes turned hunger-bright upon the cut and he slowly held it out to her. She grabbed his wrist and licked the blood there.

He got a firm hold of the shard in his free hand and slid it across her throat, which she barely noticed in her distraction. He knew he wanted to do more then escape now, he wanted revenge. He wanted her dead; he wanted payment for his suffering and the suffering of his country, the death of his family, the murder of his bride. He cupped her black blood in his hand and licked it, swallowed its bitterness. He felt the blood take hold of him from the inside and his heart fluttered.

She took notice at last and pulled away, horror in her eyes. Blood was smudged all around her mouth and he smiled softly in knowing.

He might never be human again, but his vindication would be enough to live for. With the power he stole from this pitiful mistress of the night, he might be able to destroy all vampires in the world.

He laughed, the sound gurgling from his throat as he mortal body fell into its death throes, his throat bared as his spine bent backwards against the wall, almost snapping at the sharp curve. His fingers clawed and yet he still cackled. He felt his bones shift, his skin tighten around his old wounds in speeded healing, his teeth grow long and sharp. His tongue was cut when he felt the strange new addition of fangs and his first taste of warm blood, his own, made his eyes swim red as they changed from clouded brown to clear, sharp sunset orange.

"A dog, am I?" he hissed, his voice somehow different from what he knew, deeper, vicious on his lips. Her eyes widened and she screamed when he fell on her. Whatever strength she had seemed to fail her against his fury-driven desire to kill and the hunger of a fledgling that ate his skin with imagined fire. He drained her and cut her head off with the mirror and smiled as he watched her body fall to ashes.

He turned and left, killing everything with a heartbeat on the way out. He stepped out into the night and smiled, the bright heat of summer swaddling his body in the comforts of his new world better than the arms of any human mother.

**_NS_**

Rothen's eyes snapped open and he startled out of bed in a rush of furred tail and trembling hands. He stuffed all he had taken with him back into his bag and was halfway to the door when the little vampiress halted him with a flash of her bright eyes.

"I must go to him. I must remind him why he still exists," Rothen explained hurriedly between huge breaths.

She smiled and gave him her silent blessing with a brush of her fingers over his ear.

"Run swiftly, your mother moon will guide you."

He smiled his thanks and fled, silently, into the warm night, the heavy-bellied moon yellow as wheat and the bats swooping to their insect kills.

_Fin chapter 22_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **Guess what! I'm up to chapter 24! Holy crap, right? I thought by now I might've lost interest in this story and yet I have so much to say! True, I need to finish those chapters and they're a lot shorter than I wanted them to be, but they make me happy enough with their existence. Not to worry, I'll get around to finishing them. This is the first free weekend I've had, so I'm writing so much. It's exciting.

And I like the new format of It looks so much cleaner this way.

**To My Readers: **

**Red-on-Black: **Have you read the Manga? You remember that werewolf kid in shorts, right? That's him. He is bound to servitude to the General, but I really doubt he's the man's mate. I mean…Well, even I have to draw limits.

I love sap, sap is my friend, but even I get sick of it. I don't read romance novels because a lot of them are just disgustingly sappy. Too much of it and I get a stomachache. Besides, I don't see either Rothen or Alucard as 'sappy'. Sure, they're romantic sometimes, when the occasion calls for it, but in reality treat one another as 'more than friends, less than lovers'.

Oh yes…the 'Fear the Spoon' comment! That's a weird inside joke dating back to freshman year in High School when I would go around saying that for no reason. One time I printed the saying out and stapled little pictures of spoons to them. I had hundreds of them and I just passed them out everybody, even teachers. I knew of a couple who still have them.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper: **Go check my comment to Red-on-Black. I just made the comment because I needed something to say, nothing sinister plot wise. I was just being lazy really (laughs).

I remember when I was really little that whenever I wanted to know something someone (parents, teachers, neighbors, etc.) would tell me 'go look it up', even if I very fleetingly knew what I wanted to ask about. I usually didn't then, but now it's become a bit of a habit. And after that be facts not being factual scare from Wikipedia a few months ago, I wouldn't consider it as the 'perfect' source of information. No doubt, it's a godsend, a wellspring for my own lazy researching, but I would never use it on a written report for school.

Heavens, no!

(laughs)


	23. Brave New World

**Author's Notes: **Am currently looking for a job on campus so I can quit my current one, pricing textbooks in the bookstore and online, trying to plan last-minute get together with my friends, finish all the tests for my driver's license, bring another fic to a close and yet another new one to a beginning, update my more popular fics while considering the futures of my other fics, working my current job, go to school, sleep, eat, shower regularly and work on the webcomic, all while trying not to go mad…

Am I stressed?

Strangely, no. I think it's the sleep deprivation, but I'm feeling rather good, chipper even.

Why, you ask?

I farted on the bus and no one figured it out. You try it sometime and see how fulfilling it is.

Chapter 23: Brave New World

American Revolution  
Paris, France to American Colonies  
1977 A.D.

Vladimir slammed the newspaper down on the table where Rothen was tallying the month's expenses, knocking the extra quills, piles of coins and papers onto the floor. Rothen cursed and dove to pick them up, demanding to know how the hell he was supposed to get the numbers straight again.

"The presumption of these colonists, thinking themselves so important that they can separate from England!" Vladimir shouted, pointing to the black scrawl of newsprint that was the apparent uproar all over Europe. Rothen just looked at him, wondering how he'd forgotten that he couldn't read.

"You said the exact same thing when Henry the Eighth decided to leave the Catholic church. You don't even like Catholics," Rothen growled softly as he sat back in the chair and played with the cuff of his jacket.

"That is beside the point!"

"And am I to presume we'll be visiting these so called 'colonists'?" Rothen asked softly, wondering if it was even worth it to finish his work here. No doubt the vampire would want to leave right away.

"Actually, they call themselves American patriots."

"As if that was so original…"

**_NS_**

"I still don't see why we can't just stay in one place for a while. All this moving, moving, moving, packing and repacking…It's like you're looking for something," Rothen murmured from the arched doorway to Vladimir's room, the light of the hallway pouring into the murky black of the room beyond. It was too hot for a fire, especially for a French spring. The werewolf's sharp eyes flickered to his loose shirt and his fingers adjusted the collar that hung on his frame like a shroud.

He could feel the vampire's eyes on him, sense his pale form spread out on the overstuffed featherbed behind the drapes, basking in the height of French luxury. He didn't like it, the way these people insisted on filling their houses with flouncy, flowery furniture until a house seemed to burst with eccentricities. He hated the bright splashes of color, the drone of epic love poems, the thick scents of perfume on twittering, birdlike women who insisted on twisting their forms with contraptions known as corsets.

He was glad he didn't have to wear one.

"You aren't looking for something, are you?" Rothen pressed, his voice almost accusatory.

"Nonsense, pet," came Vladimir's deep voice, thickened behind the upholstery, "But I do get ever so bored with these cities when there are so many others to see. Besides, I would enjoy watching the war in the Americas. People are already placing bets, Vampires placing bids. I want to watch it unfold."

A thin, pale arm slithered out from between the curtains and the fingers curled to beckon Rothen inside and shut the door. The werewolf obeyed silently, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness as he moved toward the bed and pulled the curtains aside.

Vladimir smiled up at him, the white of his teeth and red of his eyes glittering with their own light. His body barely stood out from the dark, though Rothen felt a solid hand pull his wrist, tugging him closer until they were face to face, nose to nose.

Vladimir captured Rothen's lips in a kiss, mouth soft and fangs hooded, his mind pressing deeper into the werewolf's as his tongue delved for dominance between Rothen's dangerous teeth, strong jaw working. Rothen moaned softly and let the vampire pull him all the way inside the world within the curtains, all soft sheets and the scent of Romanian grave dirt. The ties to his loose shirt were already undone and a cold hand searching under its folds across his chest, making him shutter at the temperature and touch.

Vladimir took him quietly and they lay panting beside one another in the heavy air, Vladimir's fingers fondly playing with Rothen's ear. The werewolf was purring when the other sat up, all sensual relaxation gone in an instant. The change made his hair stand on end and he tried to follow, but the vampire's hand pressed him back down among the sheets.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a moment," he whispered, barely waiting for Rothen's faint nod before fading into the shadows with a hushed sigh of displaced air. The werewolf's ears worked back and forth, trying to find out what was going on, but the curtains prevented any sounds from being heard.

Just as quickly as he was gone, Vladimir was back and curling around the werewolf's tense form, quietly telling him to relax, that everything was all right. Rothen turned his face into the soft hand stroking his cheek, but wouldn't listen.

"What was it?" he asked, his voice curt.

"The butler needed my aid at sending a guest on his way," Vladimir replied mysteriously, just vague enough to be anything, coded or truth. Rothen gave him a look and the vampire's broad mouth widened into a tooth-bearing grin.

"Nothing to worry about, pet, I assure you."

"Hn."

**_NS_**

Rothen decided early on that he liked the Americas, if only for their remaining wildness. There were thick, pungent forests beyond the rich port cities and little townships that seemed to spring up with every passing year. It had been that way for nearly a century of exploration, displacing the native people (humans displacing other humans, vampire displacing other vampires, werewolves replacing shape shifters, witches displacing shamans and medicine men) and spreading the reek of civilization.

There was little civilization in this 'New World' and for that, he adored it. Even though he and Vladimir were merely spectators, they readily took up residence in the fresh southern cities, in Virginia, in Maryland, in the Carolinas, either following their own interests of the battlefields. Vladimir hunted for himself, trusting the werewolf enough to find his own meals in the vastness of the new Americas, and only once did Rothen slip and kill a human's pet cat. Of course, that isolated incident had been provoked, so no matter how Vladimir attempted to berate him, Rothen was pleased with his righteousness and would hear none of that vampire's words.

Theirs was, if not happy, a contented life in America, where they balled with southern debutants and second generation patriots, so willing to mix heritage with other, formerly disliked, ethnicities. Rothen was pleased at the acceptance that wouldn't have gone well in Europe and went out of his way to be pleasant to the humans they spent their time with. He learned to dance and lie effectively through a smile, but he choose not to do either simply because he disliked being untruthful. He preferred to dance with Vladimir than the soft women, who were internally so much stronger than their counterparts because of their blind faith in their new society.

He appreciated their strength of character and their willingness to die for their beliefs, associating them to the few actual witches, Wicca, and other pagans that had stuck to their ideals in the face of Catholic hunts. They were all heroes to him, so much so that he refrained from hunting humans, sticking to animals he found on the countryside. Vladimir didn't approve, but he rarely ever listened to him now and the vampire didn't often force the issue.

The war ended with a great upheaval of the government, the reformation of it exhausting even from their little haven, but they remained until after the French Revolution had begun its slow spiral into hysteria. Only then did Vladimir insist on returning to Europe (for its entertainment value). Rothen went without protest, but made a promise to go back to the 'New World' someday.

_Fin Chapter 23_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **This started out as a filler chapter, with some random basic history I remembered from high school, and then it changed into something plot worthy. I have the feeling this fic resonated a historical air even though it wasn't my intention but to explain Rothen and Vladimir's relationship through the ages. Either way, it's turned out exceptionally well, if I do say so myself. Apparently by the fond reviews I've received, you think so as well.

Thanks.

(I should not be stealing titles from other books…what was I thinking!)

**To My Readers: **

**Zoe: **Actually, Helena hasn't shown up in the manga yet. It was a mistake I only realized after I posted this (whoops!). Anyway, she was more of a Victorian-centered character, I know, but I changed it just to confuse myself. So much for trying not to alter important details…if she shows up in the future, it'll have been another mistake.

**Red-on-Black: **Ah…Reading the manga would help, since it's what most of this is based on. Thank you, though.

**morality: **You don't like punctuation, do you?

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**No, this chapter isn't about Rothen becoming a werewolf. If you go back to the first, what, six chapters, you'll know that he was born one. Not to mention, I said 'vampire' at least three times in that one passage. It's about when Vladimir/ Alucard became a vampire (it could've been divined just by following the context).

Also, looking things up for yourself is a life lesson in independence. You shouldn't have to rely on other people's answers, because a lot of the time, they're wrong unless they're professionals in the subject you have questions about. An unwillingness to work for information isn't a good way to approach anything in life, especially college, should you (or are) follow that route. Telling your parents to look something up isn't revenge so much as pettiness.

And you weren't rambling…you have to long-winded to ramble.

Sorry…vicious days brings a vicious mood.


	24. Selene

**Author's Notes: **It's twelve o' three and the power has been out for about two hours now. I'm glad I have a laptop, or else I really wouldn't have anything to do.

It's actually kind of nice, the silence of the house, I can hear just about everything. And the lights from the surrounding areas are enough the pierce the pitch blackness in the house. Of course, it's really very dark in the basement here, and I'm afraid of the dark, but I've got a couple of reliable flashlights that should tide me over until the laptop battery dies and I really have nothing to do.

Insomnia sucks when you can't light candles in your room. I'm scared of the mirrors.

**Chapter 24: Selene **

Present Day

London, England

19XX

Regulations required all of the Hellsing staff to partake in some sort of physical activity to keep them fit for duty. Naturally, most of the men practiced various forms of martial arts and dueled each other. Seras chose to take a nightly run about the grounds, Walter had vaguely suggested pulverizing a punching bag on his days off and Integra practiced swordplay as she had since childhood, just like her father.

Vladimir wasn't required to physical training, since he somehow magically managed to keep his strengths simply by breathing. Rothen, on the other hand, was still working out the kinks of age and his extended stay in the tower (which had done a large amount of unseen damage to his form). He privately went about his activities, even accompanied Seras on her runs in wolf-form, and would occasionally practice tracking by hunting whatever animals ventured onto the extensive lands of the manor (usually fox and raccoon, but also the occasional cat).

Rothen had just come back from a run with the new vampire, grumbling at her slowness even as his limped back to his room. Vladimir was waiting for him when he opened the door, but he ignored the vampire for the moment, dragging his disobedient body into the shower and standing under the hot stream with his eyes closed. He came out much later, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel and glared at the smirking vampire.

"I've never seen someone enjoy a shower so much before," Vladimir said softly, almost thoughtfully. Rothen snorted and tossed the towel on the floor.

"Once you get arthritic, you'll see how I feel," the werewolf replied as he crawled up onto the vampire's lap and ran a handful of freshly-sharpened claws down one pale cheek. Somewhere on the grounds a tree was suffering severe damage and no doubt the mistress, little Integra would reprimand him for it. Vladimir looked unworried about any potential threats.

Rothen growled and grabbed the vampire's hair, yanking it back roughly and reveling in the slight widening of those red eyes. Shock and anger swam deep below the practiced indifference and the werewolf couldn't help but enjoy it. He slid a fingernail through the tender flesh of the vampire's cheek and ripped the face presented open with a vicious snarl, a bark of laughter.

"Of course, none of this would've happened if you hadn't abandoned me like that. Those humans did something to us and it's your fault! It's entirely your fault!" Rothen shouted, tearing the high neck of the vampire's white shirt, the ridiculous tie, the gray suit and horrible red jacket. The pale flesh revealed opened easily to his claws and he sank his fangs deep into the torn neck, pouring his hatred into the force of his bite, into the destruction of his claws.

_Are you finished?_

/You ruin everything with your stupidity, just because you think vampires are so superior/

_Apparently not._

/Shut up/

Rothen slammed the vampire against the back of the chair, bones cracking and flesh and cold blood giving a loud squelch against the wood. Vladimir's undamaged hand curled into a fist and tossed the werewolf off. He was already pulling himself back together, regenerating his features and unsmiling mouth when Rothen's eyes finally gained their focus, the gold within furious.

"Where did this come from?" Vladimir growled as he looked at his ruined clothing, displeasure evident. Rothen hissed and leapt.

Vladimir threw him again, this time against the stone walls, hard enough to make the werewolf yelp. He held Rothen up with a hand gripped around his throat and waited for an answer while the werewolf squirmed and tried to breathe.

"Well?"

/Rot in hell./

"You're not still jealous over the Police Girl, are you? How petty, how human."

/How dare you! Human/

"I don't have time for your hissy fits, Rothen. When I let you go, you'll tell me what is bothering you and that'll be the end of it, understand?"

/Power hungry freak of nature./

Vladimir figured this was the best he was going to get and released the werewolf. Rothen was still growling, still glaring at him, but didn't attack. He could sense the werewolf's anger but he didn't understand it.

Rothen had a history of fits of madness, though, and Vladimir had dealt with all of them well enough. Though they were becoming disturbingly commonplace these days, and he could only associate it with the tower and experiments twenty years ago, left to fester too long. It bothered him, but there was little he could do about it. He had his own issues to deal with, his own projects and his job.

Rothen snarled and snapped his teeth at him when he tried to touch him; he melted away with a sigh. That was all he could do tonight. He had a mission, and those came first.

_**NS**_

Full moon. Selene's belly was full and round and electrifying this night, bright enough to be day to Rothen's hooded eyes. The power of it swelled through his blood and sang lustily with every breath he exhaled, a fog of pure magic exiting his mouth and nose. His hair stood on end, his tail was puffed and stiffly at attention as he marched through the Hellsing house, several human guards and even the butler, Walter, waiting for him, razor wire gloves at the ready, just in case.

Walter led him outside to the designated grounds and watched as he slipped from one form to the other with barely a thought. He opened his wolf eyes at a different perspective and gave a respective howl to his Lady Moon. Vladimir's coal eyes glowed in the shadows not far from the house and a gloved hand beckoned to him. He obeyed, his long legs smoothly taking him to the vampire's side and his head pressed against a strong thigh as the same hand rested on his head.

"I have a mission for you two tonight," came the human woman's voice, muffled as usual around the cigar in her teeth. Her glasses sparkled in the moonlight, the silver cross at her neck enough to repel his strong nose. Rothen met her eyes seriously, if not attentively. "A way to expend some of your energy."

"Go on," Vladimir pressed, and Rothen could sense his eagerness through his touch. The fur on his ruff rose in response and his tail wagged once in excitement.

"There is a small coven of chip vampires below a club in southern London, eliminate them."

And that was all, she turned and walked away. Vladimir's smiled widened.

"With pleasure, my master."

_**NS**_

"Releasing Control Art Restriction to level three, level two, level one. Situation A. The Cromwell Approval is now in effect. Hold release until target is silenced," Vladimir's dark voice echoed in the room, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was like a caress to Rothen's ears and he happily greeted the fellow dog-like entity the vampire had become, familiar with the black soup of roaches, maggots, flies, bats and centipedes and enjoying them as they crawled across his paws with almost loving familiarity.

/May I kill them, Master/

_Oh yes, _was Vladimir's breathy reply as they both lunged toward the horrified pack of false vampires. They screamed and fell to their claws and teeth and black tricks, to frightened to move or fight back, too pathetic to fight hard when they bothered at all. Rothen was snapping the neck of a female vampire, the creature squealing and fighting weakly when Vladimir ordered him to finish already and told them that they were leaving.

He tore the head away and carried it back to the vampire, much like a dog with a stick, tail wagging and eyes glittering with bloodlust. Vladimir smiled indulgently and patted the werewolf's bloodied fur when he dropped the already rotting head at his feet.

/Do I sense disappointment/

_I long for a real fight, _Vladimir admitted, _These freaks are nothing more than humans with a zest for blood. It's a shame all the worthy vampires have gone into hiding._

/They'll come out to play later/ Rothen thought quietly, still pleased with himself as he licked at the blood on his chops.

_You had fun?_

/It wasn't a hunt, but it was good enough./

_Then let's go home._

/As you say, Vladimir./

_**NS**_

"You know one day I'll have to leave," Rothen said softly over his teacup. Vladimir thought he looked remarkably humane with the delicate cup in his hands, his hair strung with frail gray just emerging from the black. The moment it took for what the werewolf had said to set in was a little overextended.

"What?" Vladimir asked inelegantly, sitting up in the chair in which he slouched comfortably.

"You know exactly what I said," Rothen snapped back, his voice a little sharper than usual, gold eyes leveling. Vladimir's eyebrow rose in response, but he chose to ignore it for the moment.

"Do I, now?"

Rothen set the cup down in the saucer too swiftly and the china nearly cracked. He glared at Vladimir, but didn't explain himself. Vladimir sighed and leaned back.

"You never did sit in your chair properly…Did you when you were human?"

Vladimir looked up at the werewolf, innocence incarnate if it was possible, "Whenever was I human?"

"Oh, never mind!"

They both fell silent for a few long moments before Rothen reached for his teacup again.

"What's this business about leaving?" Vladimir asked quietly, fingering the brim of his red hat. He looked over his sunglasses at Rothen, eyes solemn.

"Ageless as I was years ago, whatever spell it was has apparently broken," Rothen replied in a conspiratorial tone, "My age is already catching up to me. I spend more time in dreams and memories than in the present day, you know this as well as any other, but perhaps you've chosen not to address it?"

"Don't answer my questions with more questions," Vladimir snapped, stung.

"I had a dream once," Rothen said, "It was when we first met, do you remember? I had come to kill you, but you took my heart instead…"

Vladimir sat up, mouth grim, "What?"

"You'd taken a shine to me for some reason, but I was destined to destroy the vampire clans. I left to stay with Helena, you remember her, sweet Helena, but I eventually got to missing you and I tried to find you. We traveled around from place to place, you were always looking for something, until you picked up that Hellsing woman, Ingrid, was it? I had to find you again, I always have to find you," Rothen laughed.

Vladimir's eyes were wide, horrified.

"Rothen…"

"Yes?" the werewolf replied through a smile behind his teacup.

"We met in Paris at the World's Fair in 1860…Don't you remember?"

"No…we met in 1260…"

Vladimir slowly got to his feet and moved around the table to lean over the werewolf, a cautious hand upon the thin shoulder.

"Didn't we?" Rothen laughed nervously, "You're just trying to confuse me."

"No, Rothen, you weren't even alive then."

_Fin Chapter 24_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **OH! A plot twist! Weren't expecting that, now were you?

**To My Readers: **

**Red-on-Black: **(Bows) Thank you. It's nice to see someone agrees with me.

**Chinese Dragon Keeper**(Cracks whip) Cackle.


	25. Moon Madness

**Author's Notes: **

(Edit for chapter 24)

Firstly, there are no actual raccoons on any of the British Isles. While they were introduced Continental Europe some unaccounted number of years by explorers from northern America, it was never on the British Isles. Thank you** Phorcys** for bringing that to my attention. Sorry for any confusion.

Also, correction about the year of the World's Fair in Paris. The year was 1878. Again, sorry. Shame on me for guessing dates (but you have to admit, a decade or two off isn't all that bad).

On another note, this story will be coming to a close soon. Just thought I'd give you guys a heads up since the last time I ended something abruptly I got death threats…

And now for your regularly scheduled programming.

**Chapter 25: Moon Madness**

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

So, was it really true? Had he really forgotten everything? How could his memories be nothing more than figments of his imagination, something planted there and sprouted out of madness?

Was the woman-turned-monsteress he recalled really his mother? Had her genes of irrevocable strangeness actually fallen from her blood to his, or was he the first generation madman? Was he even born a werewolf? Could he had been human years ago but not remember it?

Was his name really Rothen at all? How old was he, where was he from, why was he forgetting reality for a dream world?

Vladimir had been lurking outside his door for days now, but he still refused to let him inside, even going so far as to put up a holy barrier to keep him from phasing through the walls. He ignored the prying of the vampire's worried mind into his own, wretched in his confusion.

Only when that stinking human woman, Integra pounded on the door and ordered him to open it under threat of imprisonment in the tower again, did he open the door. He looked older now, tired from frenzied nightmares of his fake world, more gray strands in the hair at his temples than before. He could see his own darkened eyes in the reflection of her glasses. Vladimir hovered just behind her, plucking at the folds of his coat as if he were about to leap inside the sliver of opened door.

"We need to talk," the woman said, her breath smelling faintly of cigar smoke even two feet away. She smoked too much. She must've had a death wish.

Rothen just looked at her.

"What am I?" he finally asked, unmoving.

"Come out and we'll figure this whole affair out," she said, also uncompromising in her demands.

He sighed and stepped out, ignoring the slightest of relieved breaths from the vampire's dry lungs, holding his gray clothes close around his body with his thin hands, bare feet slapping on the stone floor as he moved. He glared at Integra, silently ordering her to tell him immediately what was going on, if she presumed to know anything, which was assumed by all that she did.

"Do you recall the experiments thirty years ago?" Integra asked, and Rothen immediately nodded.

"What do you remember exactly?"

He stopped nodding and frowned at her…

His mind swam, his head hurt a little from hunger. He tried to remember…

"The specifics are hazy," he finally allotted.

"So you can't remember anything? A conversation, a face, anything?"

"I remember pain," he hissed, curling around himself as if in protection from the memories of the sharpest, most intrusive of tortures…

He realized for the first time that they were there, in a vague sort of way. Like a dream, they only existed when thought upon and then forgotten.

His eyes widened slightly and he realized he'd been following her as she walked down the hall and opened a door. She flipped a switch and he leapt back with a shriek, straight into Vladimir's arms. He struggled against the vampire, clawing and cursing as he tried to get away, but nothing could help him escape. Vladimir carried the struggling werewolf inside and Integra shut and locked the door behind them.

"You remember this room," she observed unnecessarily.

He let out a long, mournful 'No' and slipped out of Vladimir's arms, ran for the door. The vampire was there in an instant, blocking it with a sorrowful look.

"Why do you remember this room?" Integra demanded, shouting at him. Rothen huddled deeper against his chest, backing against a wall so nothing could appear behind him. His eyes were wild, but unseeing.

He could barely breathe, it was terrifying and he didn't know why.

"Why do you remember this room, Rothen!"

He could see it now, feel the bite of leather straps around his wrists, ankles, chest, forehead, the bright light jabbing him in the eyes when he tried to open them. There was the clank of metal, the stink of silver and humans and antiseptic, a wad of cotton in his teeth to keep him silent.

And there, a face masked and backlit with the overhead lamp, but those eyes, those evil eyes, green-hazel and filled with devious glee. He wielded a long silver scalpel and the werewolf's eyes widened, he tried to run. His hunger ate at his gut, and the smell of silver burned his throat.

He couldn't breathe…

"Let's see what exactly makes this monster tick, eh?" the human said to his cohort, who chuckled.

"He looks so scared," the other man laughed, "No brave faces like that damned vampire."

"Well he should be scared, he's about to get a huge dose of payback." The doctor leaned in, inches from the werewolf's face, "This is for all those humans you killed, you freak."

"NO!" Rothen screamed, clutching his head and crumpling to the floor. He fought the kind arms that tried to contain his shaking, fangs bared in a snarl in pure animalistic terror, all sense lost for the sake of self-preservation.

"That's enough, Integra," Vladimir's voice cut through the noise Rothen was making. He could see her nodding somewhere in the dimmer areas of the room.

"Calm him down, talk to him, feed him. We'll work on this more later." And she left.

Vladimir cradled the werewolf's head against his chest, the both of them still on the floor of the operation room. Rothen's eyes were focused on an elderly bloodstain, so dark it was black now. It could've been his own, from then…

He was breathing easier now, his gasps shallower and more frequent. His tears had stopped minutes ago, his shoulders gone lax.

"My name isn't Rothen, is it?" he asked, his voice surprisingly even after his fit.

"It wasn't, but it is now. It changed then. Like mine."

"The humans did it…it's all their fault. I never killed a human until then…They were wrong to blame me for that."

"You remember that much?"

"Remember, no. But I know."

Vladimir couldn't figure out how the werewolf could know anything without remembering it, but there were always some parts of the other's mind he could never penetrate or understand.

"Let's get out of this place, it isn't a place for this talk." Vladimir said softly into the werewolf's ear. The other nodded and they rose together, supporting one another easily.

"My room. I want you to tell me everything. I need to know who I was."

"Are," the vampire corrected. Rothen shook his head.

"No. Was. Whoever I was then is dead now. I want to know who that creature was."

Vladimir studied Rothen's face for a few moments, then sighed and nodded.

"After we get you some food. I'll have Walter bring something down. Any requests?"

"Interga's head on a platter?" Rothen asked without hesitation. Vladimir laughed and led them out.

"Maybe some other day."

_**NS**_

"Let's start with something simple," Rothen began as he sipped weakly at his cup of tea, eyes staring into the fireplace where the flames had just licked the first black marks across the freshly built logs. He had sucked down the newly killed chicken that had been presented to him within minutes of its arrival and was now curled up in an armchair set up with its twin before the fireplace that heated the room.

Vladimir looked up at him, apparently satisfied that he'd eaten and calmed down, ready to answer questions.

"What was my name?"

Vladimir blinked, and his lips curled in a slight smile.

"Well, it obviously wasn't Rothen von Thorne."

"Obviously," Rothen snorted.

"Lukas Keller, from Berlin."

"Berlin? Berlin didn't exist when-"

"You were born in 1859, eleven years after it was officially named Capital of the German Empire. Your father was a merchant and your mother dead when I met you."

"I was human?"

"Yes, human, but with a certain preternatural state. I suppose it's what attracted you to me and me to you…and the wolves to you as well."

"Go on? How did we meet?"

"Your father had decided to visit the world's fair and make some sales and you had come with him, apparently his apprentice, but you had little interest in a merchant's life."

Rothen spoke before he realized it, "I wanted to be a scientist…"

Vladimir gave a relieved laugh. "Indeed you did!"

"But you…you were…"

"Living in Paris at the time, seeing the sights, visiting the fair, picking off the foreigners, leading quite the good life, actually," Vladimir lilted, "You were gawking at the telephone and its inventor, trying to talk to him in very terrible English when I saw you. Mr. Bell had looked quite confused listening to you and I offered to translate. Do you remember?"

Rothen tapped his chin gently, "I remember the crowds…and the electric lights. Those were amazing…"

"Yes, a novelty that took right off, didn't it?"

"I was nineteen?"

"Yes. You offered to buy me a drink in thanks. I declined the drink after the fact, but we did go and eat out that evening. I think I showed you around the more tourist-friendly places of Paris, which amused you."

"You wanted to drink my blood," Rothen growled, recognizing it as a hunting tactic. How stupid he'd been as a human, believing the monsters weren't real, weren't at his very doorstep.

"You let me out of curiosity."

"Then why didn't I turn into a vampire or ghoul?"

"I didn't take it directly," Vladimir said, hackled rising at the tone of voice the werewolf was speaking in out of habit, "You cut your wrist and told me not to bite down."

Cursed curiosity…

"I sent you home with the promise not to speak of me and maybe a slight twist of memory, not hard done. I had rather enjoyed your company. You weren't afraid of me, perhaps too young to know better and too old to fear legends."

"What about the werewolves?" Rothen asked, impatient.

"I don't know exactly, just that you came back a couple days later, tracked down my apartment even though I forced you to forget the address. You just appeared on my doorstep, bleeding and exhausted as if you'd been running. You asked me to help you."

He remembered now, the past, the real past. He remembered his mother's soft face, exactly the one he knew, but human, blue eyes instead of gold. She had died young, he remembered, in childbirth of his sister…they'd both died. His father had never recovered and had traveled Europe since, dragging the twelve-year-old version of him until seven years later, in Paris.

He remembered now, Vladimir's easy translation between boy and inventor, his hand on his shoulder as he led him through the streets of the city, him eating nothing at the restaurant, but watching him with a certain hunger he hadn't realized until much later. When the vampire had told him what he was, what he wanted, he had willing given up his blood, dying of curiosity, the lust for knowledge of any kind enough to make him tempt certain death.

The vampire had been a perfect gentleman the whole time, and had sent him off later that night with a kind goodbye and an offer to take him touring again at some later date. On the way home, he was grabbed by some shadowy form and stolen away. He had woken in the presence of strange humanoids with ears and tails and wolfish features, licking their chops and clicking their claws along the stone walls, their tattered clothing suggesting they were of the outcasted lots that lived beneath the city. They had spoken to him in French, but he couldn't understand them, demanded to know where he was and then to be taken back to his father.

They had fed on him, torn through his weak human flesh and abandoned him in the sewers to die. But he didn't die. He'd crawled out of that hellish place and all the way to the vampire's home, although he hadn't known at the time where he had been going. He had stayed awake long enough to make sure he was safe, and then collapsed into the vampire's awaiting arms.

_Fin Chapter 25_

_Please Review_

**Author's Note: **Classes are finally starting tomorrow. Finally, I'll have something else to do but write!

Wait, is that a good thing?

Also, my job as Library Security starts tomorrow…

How in the hell did I get that job? I'm not really all that intimidating. Ah well, I'm getting paid more than my last job to do less than my last job, so this is a great thing anyway. Besides, I like libraries. They're filled with my favorite things, books!

**To My Readers: **

**Phorcys**: Thanks for pointing that out! I've learned something that isn't entirely valuable, will certainly save me the trouble of raccoon-proofing my trash cans when I move to England.

And yes, fancy that, Alucard is actually telling the truth.

**Morality: **Uh…Rothen was the one with memory loss…not Alucard…Mistype?

**Red-on-Black: **"Or they could be both right and you cooked up a marvelous plan to explain it."

That _would_ be pretty marvelous, wouldn't it? But alas, I can't possibly think of something that would work out that well…Well, this is cooler anyway.

And I love cliffhangers, don't you? I love pushing my readers off in unexpected directions. Thanks for the review!


	26. True beginnings

**Author's Note: **Again, I remind you, this story will be coming to a close soon. Just be prepared.

**Chapter 26: True Beginnings**

Paris, France  
November 1st, 1878 A.D.  
Exposition Universelle

"Lukas, are you awake?" 

The voice was soft, gentle even, though not unmasculine. Fingers stroked his brow, their coolness setting the fires the wracked his body into a mind-warping frenzy. He groaned, growled, his mouth pouting for something, anything to quench his thirst.

"Do you know where you are, Lukas?" the voice asked and he fought to open his eyes. He could barely see in the darkness, the pale face in the depths lost to him but for the bright-red eyes the burned as they seemed to hover.

"Father?" he whispered, his voice rough and painful. Tears welled in his eyes at the pain, so much pain…

"No. My name is Vladimir. You remember me, from the Exposition?"

"Vladimir…" he repeated, the name familiar, the memories just swelling under the surface of his thoughts like bubbled blisters under unpunctured skin. He tried to open his mouth wider and a surging wave of tortured tenderness made itself known. He might've had lockjaw if he didn't know any better…

Cholera? Was he ill?

"You were bitten by something, a werewolf, I would presume. Do you know what a werewolf is? Can you tell me who did this to you?"

"Ears," Lukas whispered into the silence of the room, all-enveloping. It was sour, the press of death there, the stench of human sweat. "They looked like wolves and humans at once…They spoke French…It hurt…hurt so much…"

"Hush, boy, I know. They were werewolves, as I suspected."

Lukas slowly reached up and grasped at whatever substance the vampire existed in now, out into the almost palpable darkness. His fingers curled around the partially-liquid substance.

"What's going to happen to me? Am I going to become a monster like them?" he asked in a small, terrified voice.

"Yes."

Lukas gave a muffled cry.

_**NS**_

A week of mind-numbing pain and it was over. Lukas had woken one evening to find himself entirely different, but healed. There wasn't a single mark on him.

He had a tail, though, and dog-like ears sticking out of the top of his head. His human ears were gone; his body stronger, more lean muscle than it had possessed before. His face was narrower now, his eyes bloodshot, golden-colored. He had bitten himself twice since his waking with his newly-acquired fangs.

"Ah, you're awake."

He whirled from examining himself in the mirror. He hadn't even heard the vampire come in, could barely recognize his face, actually. The vampire, Vladimir, smiled at him.

"Good to see you survived the transition. Are you hungry?"

Lukas's stomach answered for him. He flushed with embarrassment.

"Come downstairs, we'll find you something to eat."

Lukas pulled at the unfamiliar clothes he was wearing and followed. They must've been changed sometime earlier and that made his cheeks burn even pinker at the thought.

He was sat down at a small table in the kitchen and the vampire sent a young human woman, obviously a servant, out to retrieve something from the pantry. She had barely even looked at Lukas, possibly used to seeing strange things with the vampire about.

"Why are you doing this for me?" Lukas asked as he stared at the grain of the table. He had never noticed before how beautiful wood was, never seen a tree's entire life span, entire story in a single ring under his dinner plate. It was fascinating, these new eyes of his.

"I owed a favor to you for the meal you supplied me with last week."

"But certainly I am in your debt now?"

The vampire turned on him sharply, his eyes threatening enough to make Lukas cringe.

"Stop trying to look for something negative in my kindness. I want nothing of you, if you must honestly know, but you're of the night-kind now and without sire to teach you, so the responsibility of caring for you falls upon me," Vladimir bit out. Lukas had shrunk down in the chair during the rant, eyes terrified. When the vampire saw his fear, he sighed and ordered him to sit up.

"Caring for me?" Lukas finally struggled out.

"Well, you certainly don't know how to survive like this on your own. You're not human anymore, and there are certain differences between the two. You can't survive on the food the once sustained you, and your lifestyle will completely change."

"But my father…"

Vladimir leveled him with a sad look and apologetically said, "You can't go back, Lukas. You're not human. To him, you're as good as dead."

"No! You're a liar! I'm going home right now!" Lukas screamed as he shot out of his chair and to the door. The vampire materialized there before he could reach the knob and shoved him back.

"Get a hold of yourself, boy! You're not a human anymore. You're a werewolf, a monster, creature of the night, servant of the moon goddess! There's nothing you can do about it, so accept it!"

Lukas sat down at the table again, tears streaming down his face.

"Please kill me…I don't want to live on like this…I don't want to be a monster."

Vladimir snorted and tossed a kitchen knife on the table.

"Do it yourself, if you're so desperate."

And he left.

_**NS**_

"I see you haven't ended your life. Decided to linger about my house to mope a little longer?" Vladimir sneered at Lukas when he ghosted into the parlor and sat down before the fire, looking generally wretched and still feeling sorry for himself.

Lukas didn't deign him with an answer.

"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you like in my company, I suppose. Under a condition, of course."

Lukas looked up at the vampire, all sad eyes.

"Yes, boy, there's always a price. You are welcome to stay as my companion."

"And what does that entail?" Lukas said finally, if not brokenly. He really had no other choices. No one else would take him in, he knew.

"A sort of servant, you might say, someone to travel with. I travel quite extensively and it does become quite dull with no one to amuse me. You amuse me. It would be a comfortable life, I assure you, and mostly safe from those that hunt our kinds. I can educate you on the histories of your new people."

"Thank you, I will stay, but I want to know nothing of other werewolves," Lukas bit out sharply. Vladimir just nodded as if he'd been expecting it.

"Well, then…Welcome to the Dracula household."

"Again, thank you."

_**NS**_

Lukas fell into a routine of sorts, all wound around the vampire's nightly schedule. The switch between night and day had been surprisingly easy, as he'd had to take on a nocturnal mindset to follow the vampire's, and he often found himself wondering if daylight actually existed between the moments he slept. He'd had no urge, though, to look behind his heavy curtains at the street below to make sure.

Vladimir was some foreign aristocrat, claimed Romanian heritage, and often spent his nights attending parties of other rich aristocrats and those of the new rich. Naturally, Lukas detested the crowded parlors and thick perfumes, but since Vladimir was considered a bit of an eccentric, his companion was also allowed to wear his hat and long coat to cover his…oddities. The humans didn't suspect a thing when he'd suddenly started following the vampire around, claiming to be a friend. Vladimir only reinforced the idea of their friendship among the packs of humans until seeing one of them made people expect the other to be tagging along shortly after.

A month passed. Lukas rarely thought of his father or his human life. It seemed like someone else's memories, like he had died and been reborn as something new and powerful. He came to enjoy his new form, even though he still refused to learn anything more about the werewolf subculture. He wasn't allowed to hunt (though they both knew he couldn't anyway), but he never turned down the food presented to him. In another life, the raw meat would've disgusted him, but now his instincts reigned over his mind if there was any hesitation. He didn't deal well with hunger.

Lukas, while not exactly happy, was content, and often spent the latter part of the evenings at home with the vampire, reading to one another, telling stories or just gossiping. It seemed as if their lives were nothing more than fanciful parties, excess in the loveliness of life and the thrill of blood split in hungry frenzy. It was a month before his body had started acting strangely.

He'd thought he'd finally started to understand himself when the first pang of searing pain woke him in the late hours of day. He'd curled around himself, wondering if he'd eaten something bad while cramp after cramp hit him, made him moan. It was loud enough to wake the vampire and for him rush to Lukas's room, curious to know the problem at hand.

"I don't know!" Lukas snapped when the vampire asked him what was wrong. "It hurts!"

"Your stomach?"

"Yes!"

"Let me see," Vladimir ordered, pulling the boy's hands away from his stomach and peeling his nightshirt up. There was nothing outwardly wrong with him, and he couldn't think of any other reason why he might be ill, but he gave the boy a sleeping tonic anyway.

"Rest, for now. We'll see if this goes away by itself. If it doesn't, I'll call a healer." Lukas had tried to protest, but Vladimir just rested a hand on his forehead and willing him to sleep. "Rest."

_**NS**_

It didn't go away. It didn't get better. Days later, Lukas's belly was covered with black bruises, his fingers and toes sore to the touch, his head heavy with aches. Neither werewolf nor vampire could figure out what was wrong, so Vladimir sent for a healer, a small, twig-like witch in a black dress who was obviously displeased to be dealing with either of them, but apparently had no choice. Vladimir was a powerful creature.

She'd examined Lukas from head to foot, told them she couldn't figure out what was wrong, but would research it and come back later. In the meantime, she asked Vladimir to watch Lukas carefully and left.

Vladimir was sitting on the edge of Lukas's bed, stroking the back of his hand absentmindedly as he stared out into nothing. When he touched the boy's knuckle, Lukas had pulled away sharply, as if in pain. Vladimir had apologized quickly, but Lukas had only shook his head.

"It surprised me," the boy said.

"Surprised?"

"It didn't hurt…not really…I was kind of pleasant, not at all painful. Try it again?" he asked quietly, offering his hand, eager for any relief from the pain.

Vladimir nodded and stoked the boy's hand again and got a purr in response. Lukas's whole face relaxed, his eyes closed as the pain started to recede a little.

"More, please." A breathy whisper.

Vladimir's finger skimmed from his hand up his arm to his shoulder and massaged the knots there, feeling them loosen under his direction. He leaned forward slightly, reaching over to rub the boy's other shoulder and received a soft moan of approval, the werewolf's breath mingling wit his own.

At the time, it had seemed only natural…at the time. Vladimir had leaned forward and closed his lips over Lukas's mouth, something chaste, soft, fleeting. The boy had replied eagerly for a moment, then seemed to come to his senses.

For the moment…

Lukas gasped and Vladimir had to pull away not to be swallowed by the shock and surprise.

"I'm sorry, I-" Vladimir began, but Lukas surged up with sudden strength, curled his arms around his neck and pressed their mouths together again, greedily bit his lips and licked at the blood that welled in thick drops there.

Vladimir was overtaken by the boy's zealousness for several moments until he was finally released, the hands still gripping his shoulders, the boy's face still a hair's breadth from his.

"It's gone," the boy said by way of explanation.

"What is?"

"The pain. It's gone…How?"

"Who cares, kiss me again," Vladimir ordered.

So he did.

_Fin Chapter 26_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **This was one very fun chapter to write. I do so adore beginnings of things…

**To My Readers: **

**Phorcys**It's fine. I'm actually glad you picked up on it. If not, I wouldn't how known and might have made the same mistake at some other point later on in life. Who knows, maybe you just save a future Ambassador to England from making a fatally embarrassing mistake about 'coons in the Isles.

Hope you like how it ends, though, because it's only a chapter or two away.

**Red-on-Black: **Really? Me too. It was a cute picture, thinking of little Rothen attempting something so simple as a conversation in English (or French, I don't think I specified).

Why weren't you surprised with Rothen lending blood? I'm honestly curious why you think so.

P.S. Good point about freshly ordered books…I'll make a point to ask my boss about it tomorrow morning. I took out four books this morning, huge ones, and have read anything from London travel guides to psychology to books on quotes to Dylan Thomas's poetry (I adore Dylan Thomas!). Really, it's all I have to do after I clear the floors, but it's nice to be able to read so much and my boss is pleased I'm so interested in what they have to offer. I've already read a lot out of my textbooks and now I'm throwing out the things I learn simply by reading about it all over the place.

It's so much fun. I'm going to shut up now. Thank for the review!


	27. War

**Author's Notes: **It's Saturday. I'm going to Momo Taro tomorrow. After that, I'm going shopping for birthday presents for Emm and Zoe…they had to have their birthday's so close together?

I'm gonna stop using this as my xanga…someday…

**Chapter 27: War**

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

"It's creepy when you smile like that," Vladimir commented at the slightly-giddy smirk Rothen was wearing, knees to his chin, his fingers curled around his teacup, his eyes flickering with amusement, "It's unnatural."

"I remember, back then," Rothen said softly, still caught up in his daydreams. He turned to the vampire and smiled, "You were something amazing in bed."

Vladimir scoffed, "Were?"

Rothen just smirked and set his cup on the table between their chairs. Vladimir got to his feet and loomed over the werewolf, hands planted firmly on either arm of the chair, a black eyebrow arched and an annoyed sneer on his face.

"What do you mean, by 'were'?" he hissed. Rothen smiled again.

"Oh, it was so long ago…you understand…"

"I'll show you 'were'," Vladimir growled, leaning forward. Rothen laughed.

_**NS**_

"So he remembered everything. Great. How is that supposed to help the organization? At least when he was crazy he could've been put to use."

"Don't be so heartless, Integra," Vladimir objected, "I'm sure he'd gladly slaughter any number of werewolves you put in front of him, considering what they'd done to him."

Integra rounded on him and slammed her fist down on the desk, "He'd kill any number of humans, too! Doesn't have still have a vendetta against this house?"

"Well…yes," Vladimir began.

"Then he's useless. He could kill my men out in the field. I don't need that right now while the round table still doubts our importance to the protection of the country. You may continue your work, but he stays here, under surveillance. You're dismissed."

Vladimir sighed and phased out of the room, "I'll be waiting for you command, then."

_**NS**_

He was dreaming, dreaming something strange involving his gun…Somewhere off, far away, he could hear Police Girl and Walter talking, Rothen shushing them uselessly. He opened his eyes and Seras cursed, stumbling backwards in surprise.

"Nice going, stupid girl," Rothen hissed under his breath. Seras snapped a 'shut up' at him.

"Did you have a bad dream, Alucard?" Walter asked gently as he cleaned up the pile of empty bags of blood.

"It's nothing. Is Integra back from the round table meeting?"

"She should be back presently."

Alucard smiled. "Spectacular."

_**NS**_

"The EXP 14L-E, an experimental stratospheric model. It's one of the two SR-71 reconnaissance jets retired from service a few years ago by the U.S. military and sold to our Raf's R&D department. Although only the exterior is as it was with the Americans, the interior has been altered that you could accurately say it's a different plane.

"To begin with, the reconnaissance models are two-seaters. But not this one. The reconnaissance facilities are gone, and it's been retailored as a one-seater. It's designed to break high-altitude and high-speed records. And airplane for personal use."

He only needed to wait a little longer and he would be there, crashing down on the ship in the center of the ocean, causing all sorts of havoc. It hadn't been approachable by sea or air, though the British navy had tried time and again to do just that. It was Hellsing's turn.

Alucard had never been in a faster plane before. He was enjoying it, pressing little lighted buttons even though Integra had told him not to. Walter was supposed to be controlling the plane via remote control somewhere, but when it took a nose dive at ninety-degrees he'd nearly panicked. As it was, he reoriented himself and smiled. They were there…

The iron ball that tore the other planes and boats apart was doing the same to his plane. He was sad to see it die, but did not linger. He phased out of the cockpit and floated around the flaming ball of falling airplane shrapnel, riding it on it's pathway to crash landing on the carrier. The deck was painted with a swastika, but his nose told him it was from the blood of the murdered human crew. His nose crinkled in disgust. They tried to shoot him, to kill him, but he only reformed and destroyed them before advancing on the girlish vampire.

She was huddled around his musket, the one with the magic iron bullets, whispering 'Zamiel' to herself in a terrified voice.

"Now what will you do? What will you do, Rip Van Winkle," he cackled. She frowned and pointed her musket at him.

"My varhead will punish all vithout distinction! Fall in und perish!"

He laughed, let the musket ball swing around him, even hit him before catching it in his teeth, the hot metal searing the skin of his cheek presently. He adored the horrified look on her face. He pinned her against the wall and jammed the musket through his heart, laughing at her screams.

He leaned down and licked up the blood, eyes dark when he finally cleaned the deck of her blood and attacked her neck to drain her. She died surprisingly quietly.

He laughed.

_**NS**_

There was a traitor in their midst, he could smell it. Even though he had originally objecting to going, Rothen understood why Integra wanted him close. He had the ability to sniff out trouble, something neither of the humans could do. Also, she wanted to make sure he didn't off and kill everyone in the house while she was away.

He didn't mind so much. One of these days he'd get her alone and make her pay and then he'd make a talisman out of her blood, skin and precious hair. When the vampire revealed himself, Walter easily dispatched him. The fat men of the round table looked about, frightened like the sheep they were, looking at one another in suspicion.

He couldn't believe they dared doubt the Hellsing's importance to the survival to the Empire…Even he could see it.

His ears perked and he looked up at the ceiling, trying to look through it into the night sky.

"Curious…" he whispered.

"What is it?" Walter asked, briefly looking up as well, but misunderstanding the unseeing look in Rothen's eyes. Integra's eyes flashed up at him, demanding an answer.

Rothen's teeth were bared in a smile.

"They're coming."

"Who?"

"The ones who tried to destroy Hellsing the first time. New Blood…"

That was when the bombs started falling.

_**NS**_

"We have to get back to Hellsing Manor! Walter, get the car!"

"Right away, Sir."

"Rothen, stay with me. Tell us when they get close."

Rothen just raised an eyebrow and sat back down by her chair. The room was in an uproar, only he and Integra seemed able to keep their heads while the others squawked to one another in an attempt to get away.

Rothen laid his fingers gently on Integra's sleeve and whispered, "Walter's waiting for us. We have to go before they're any closer."

"I'll be along presently. Go wait in the car."

He nodded and left.

A few minutes later, in the plush insides of the car, he waited anxiously for Integra to come. Walter waited just as impatiently and was about to go get her when she opened the door of the car and slipped inside.

"Drive, Walter, fast."

Rothen was pressed back into the seat with the force of the car screeching away from the curb and through the city. He and Integra were flung around the back seat when Walter tried to avoid a swarm of ghouls and crashed into a side rail. The three of them crawled out of the stalled car as the ghouls advanced. Walter strung his wire through his fingers and ordered Integra to get in the car and drive without stopping straight to Hellsing Manor.

The tires were squealing, the car already escaping fast when Walter realized Rothen hadn't left with the Hellsing Head. He watched at the werewolf's thin face changed from simply boyish to that of a leering monster, an expression only rivaled by their 'kept' vampire's mad little set of various smirks. The sharp canines were exposed and golden eyes wide with what could only be described as delirious joy, fingers clawed around each carefully maintained claw. He could see every muscle stark against the bone, the simple biological differences between his own human form and this monster's.

Still, Integra needed protection.

"No, Rothen, go and take care of Sir Integra!" Walter snapped as the ghouls advanced. Rothen's head turned to face him, his ragged hair falling across one eye. There was more gray there than black now…but for his young face he might've thought the werewolf to be a hundred years old.

"I'm near my end, Walter. Would it not be better to meet my end in battle?" he asked, his voice steady, calm even, though his face was still disturbing. The way he looked at Walter made the human's skin crawl.

"For your pride, perhaps," the butler allotted. Rothen's smile was almost sad now, but pleased.

Pleased in a disappointed way…or was he just reserved to his chosen fate?

"Yes, I am a prideful being, but perhaps I might gain some humanity for dying for your noble cause."

"It's Hellsing's cause you're fighting for."

"At least I'm fighting for something." The werewolf gripped his emotions close and his face went flat. He turned away to face the oncoming tide of dead.

"Take care of Vladimir for me, Lady Hellsing," Walter heard him whisper.

And then Rothen had burst into action, claws and teeth swarming down like a tornado upon the ghouls, tearing them into literal bits and pieces that were flung in every direction. Walter didn't have the time to feel disgusted, faced with his own opposition now, his wires caught in the firm hold of a freak vampire whose face had been hidden in the cowls of his overcoat. Walter tried to free his wires but his weapon betrayed him, bit into his own flesh. He bit his lip in pain and stared into the dead eyes of the vampire, so red…

_**NS**_

He would be overtaken if he didn't do something, but then again, no matter what he could do, he would still meet his end. It was decided long before that this was proper, to die by his own choice, by his own means, and perhaps with some semblance of honor that had been taken from him the day he ceased to be human. He had always wished, so fruitlessly, to be among that weak, mortal race…

The ghouls were scrambling to catch up with him, to climb the cars to his briefly safe perch on a lower-story window sill, crouched there like a bird of prey, just waiting to spread his arms and fly out over the crowd, pick one up with his talons and throw it to the ground to die. He'd watched men fly upon their machines, then to the very moon he worshipped, then beyond even that. He'd always feared heights, even as a boy.

He watched the gray faces of the monsters below him, then looked up to the smoke-hazed sky, reflecting red flames and heat and human's screaming. He put a hand to his chest and smiled softly, thinking of Vladimir's face, Alucard's ridiculous red coat, the charming vampire's voice in his ear. His claws opened his shirt, then his flesh.

It was there, rapidly beating in exhilaration and fear, his heart, just as it always had. It still existed in his breast, wrapped in red blood- turned black by the monstrous virus he possessed. His fingers looped around the gentle organ and tugged. A whine slipped from his lips, his knees shaking weakly as he panted, and tried again. The flesh reluctantly released his heart with a wet sucking sound and he held it up toward where the moon should be.

"For you, my dearest vampire, the heart of a monstrous human," he whispered even as his body slipped from the sill, falling at the moment it shredded to dust and was swept away with the wind. There was nothing left for the ghouls.

_Fin Story 'Umber'_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **You think you're crying now? Go to the last chapter.

**To My Readers: **

**Morality**Or is it?

**Red-on-Black: **I've learned not to worry so much about typing errors so long as one gets the point across. If I can sound something out phonetically, of guess at it within reason, there's no problem. Of course, then there are the reviews I think everyone dreads…I think some of these people have epileptic fits when they type, because there are some serious incongruence in their wording…It hurts my eyes.

Sorry I didn't explain further. To be honest, I just plain forgot, even though I said to myself, "Poco, you gotta get around to writing more details, more specifics, more basic werewolf biology." And when I realized what I'd written (the ending), I really didn't feel like going back and rewriting and perhaps prolonging this. 'Umber' was never intended to go on this long, I had actually expected to loose interest and give up, as it often happens. Who knew?

'Innocent'? (snort)

Had I given the impression that Rothen was too curious to be sensibly fearful? True, I had implanted the assumption, but when put into that form of thought I'm disgusted by how idiotic my own character seems…I want to drop him off a cliff for it. It might've been a more climatic fate then the one I conspired…Oh well.

**Reader: **I don't knowanyone who speaks German fluently enough to do my translations (Native or Scholar), but it isn't a problem because there is no more German spoken _in_ German. Anyway, I'm not going to go back and fix it now. It's been too long to fix, I'm done with the fic and I'm moving on.

It annoys to see Americans and other English-Speaking peoples misuse English, but I deal with that every day, I simply don't read anything written by authors who can't write in English properly. Please don't think I take misuse of my language as a personal affront. It isn't, I move on. (shrugs)

Thanks anyway, please enjoy the story.


	28. Vampire Tears

**Author's Notes: **Last chapter, get some Kleenex, and please enjoy.

**Epilogue: Vampire Tears**

Present Day  
London, England  
19XX 

"You're quiet," Vladimir whispered against the werewolf's ear. The furry ear twitched and the werewolf attached to it protested minutely against the vampire's securing arms. There was a smile in that voice, though.

"I am usually quiet," Rothen countered, playing coy for the moment.

"This is a different 'quiet'. What is it? What are you thinking of?"

A moment's silence and the werewolf slithered closer to the vampire's stolen warmth. Vladimir wordlessly pressed the werewolf for an answer with a look.

"I would like to die by my own devices, with some semblance of honor," Rothen finally said. The vampire nearly smacked him for bringing it up, though he knew some day soon Rothen would, indeed, expire from age. If his hair was anything to go by, he was far beyond the lifespan of others of his kind. He had already sensed the weakening of spirit and the crumble of his lover's mind…

As it was, in his horror, he managed to conduct himself gracefully. He barely stiffened, but the werewolf noticed, remembered.

"It is quite difficult for a werewolf to kill himself, you know this?"

"Ja. I can manage."

There were several more moment of tensed silence, the air around them charged with the desperate need for contact the dying sometimes felt before their final breaths. Vladimir knew Rothen would be alone at the end, and he wondered when he hadn't, truly, always been alone.

"Shall I find you in your next life?" Vladimir finally asked, the question betraying his reluctance to let the boy go, "Or perhaps in Hell?"

"There will be no next life and no hell. There will be nothing after this."

Vladimir looked curiously down at the werewolf. Nothing? No afterlife? No reincarnation? Rothen smiled. Vladimir realized that the relaxation with which the werewolf was speaking was really relief. Any suffering was over after death, all memories purged, existing by not existing.

"Dust. I am nothing but dust…and to dust I can return. I will cease to be entirely."

Rothen hugged the vampire closer and pressed his head under the other's chin.

"I'll miss you," Vladimir whispered, barely even knew he had spoken it aloud.

"Oh, please, Vlad, don't. Don't miss me, be happy I'm free. Remember, but never brood for me."

Vladimir did not reply, just held him close.

_**NS**_

His sight was murky and his cheeks wet. He wiped at the blood-tears, but they wouldn't stop coming. He was smiling, yes, if a bit madly, the rising bile of blood in his throat as if he hadn't leeched the life from another being, as if his body called for more bloodshed, more violence to battle it's pain. There was such pain, in the knowledge, the sudden knowing that there would be little left for him when he arrived home again. He had painted the entire ship with the blood of the freakish crew and still the despair wreaked within him.

His companion, the boy-turned-monster Rothen, Lukas, was gone now. He was dust now, just as he had professed, only a sacrificed heart wet upon the slab of granite building. It was unromantic, his ending, but noble.

He smeared his already stained glove against his cheek again and straightened up, faced east and summoned his simmering power, the hatred that has driven him to such a slaughter.

Oh yes, he would remember. He would remember everything. He would remember those deceptively human, umber eyes.

_Fin Epilogue_

_Please Review_

**Author's Notes: **I hope you enjoyed reading 'Umber' as muchas I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for all your support.


End file.
